REESE   LIBRARY 


_-n__n — rs 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


H 


SELECTIONS  FROM  POEMS 


BY 


MADGE    MORRIS. 


*^x 

UNIVERSITY) 
^ 


SACRAMENTO. 

H.    S.   CROCKER  &  CO.,    PRINTERS. 
T88l. 


f  Ut-    (HE 

(UNIVERSITY 


who,  reading,  may  fancy  — 
With  a  kindly  thought  for  me— 
There  ;s  a  grain  of  gold  in  its  drif tings, 
I  dedicate  this  "Debris." 


PREFACE. 


This  waif  is  born  of  emergency,  and  timidly  launched 
on  the  rough  sea  of  opinion.  Critic,  touch  it  gently  ; 
it  assumes  nothing — has  nothing  to  assume  ;  and  your 
scalpel  can  only  pain  its 


AUTHOR. 


OP  THE 

IVERSITT 


CONTENTS. 


Mystery  of  Carmel 9 

Wasted  Hours 81 

Rocking  the  Baby 31 

"I  Doirt  Care" 33 

A  Stained  Lily 35 

A  Valentine ...  37 

Which  One ,.    38 

life's    Way ;«) 

Uncle  Sam's  Soliloquy '.  41 

Nay,  Do  Not  Ask 44 

A  Picture 45 

Hang  Up  Your  Stocking 45 

Opening  the  Gate  for  Papa 47 

White   Honeysuckle , 4!) 

Estrangement 49 

Bring  Flowers 50 

Qood-Bye , ,..  51 

In  the  Twilight 52 

Home •_.  55 

Why? 57 

Out  in  the  Cold 58 

To  Jennie 61 

Watching  the  Shadows 62 

I  Give  Thee  Back  Thy  Heart 63 

Light  Beyond ..  04 

A  Neglected  "  Woman's  Right" 65 

Would  You  Care? 67 

A  Thought  of  Heaven 68 

Consolance 70 

When  the  Roses  Go .,»»— — .«- 71 

The  Difference - ,<..,«;...  i.» 72 

Beware _ - 7:.' 

A  Regret /„ ("J:.. .' TA 74 

"  It  is  Life  to  Die  " I. T.t.  A;. .-..;.-.  f!.T3.ci.-i.iv»:flr..  1 75 

O,  Speak  it  Not ....A.S.SS.ft.Jl.rErJftSSf.'RA.S.J 76 

A  Shattered  Idol .X- ,. OL-:. ..:.., J£ '..  77 

Poor  Little  Joe :..-.. .V. A „..-..>., 78 

Fate ^:..^.r.^.^r.^r.: 80 

The  Ghosts  in  the  Heart 82 

Only  a  Tramp 8H 

Put  Flowers  on  My  Grave 84 

Old  Aunt  Lucy 85 

Unspoken  Words 87 

O!  Take  Away  Your  Flowers 89 

Rain !to 

I  love  Him  for  His  Eyes --  »I 

Only .- 92 

Somebody's  Baby  's  Dead '..  !)4 

The  Withered  Rosebud !t.r- 

My  Ships  Have  Come  From  Sea 96 


MYSTERY  OF  CARMEL. 

The  Mission  floor  was  with  weeds  o'ergrown, 
And  crumbling  and  shaky  its  walls  of  stone  ; 
Its  roof  of  tiles,  in  tiers  and  tiers, 
Had  stood  the  storms  of  a  hundred  years. 
An  olden,  weird,  medieval  style 
Clung  to  the  mouldering,  gloomy  pile, 
And  the  rythmic  voice  of  the  breaking  waves 
Sang  a  lonesome  dirge  in  its  land  of  graves. 
Strangely  awed,  I  felt  th'at  day, 
As  I  walked  in  the  Mission  old  and  gray — 
The  Mission  Carmel  at  Monterey. 

An  ancient  owl  went  fluttering  by, 
Scared  from  his  haunt.     His  mournful  cry 
Wakened  the  echoes,  till  roof  and  wall 
Caught  and  re-echoed  the  dismal  call 
Again  and  again,  till  it  seemed  to  me 
Some  Jesuit  soul,  in  mockery — 
Stripped  of  rosary,  gown,  and  cowl — 
Haunted  the  place,  in  this  dreary  owl. 
Surely  I  shivered  with  fright  that  day, 
Alone  in  the  Mission  old  and  gray — 
The  Mission  Carmel  at  Monterey. 


10  MYSTERY    OF    CARMEL. 

Near  the  chapel  vault  was  a  dungeon  grim, 
And  they  say  that  many  a  chanted  hymn 
Has  rung  a  knell  on  the  moldy  air 
For  luckless  errant  prisoned  there, 
As  kneeling  monk  and  pious  nun 
Sang  orison  at  set  of  sun. 
A  single  window,  dark  and  small, 
Showed  opening  in  the  heavy  wall, 
Nor  other  entrance  seemed  attained 
That  erst  had  human  footstep  gained. 
I  paused  before  the  uncanny  place 
And  peered  me  into  its  darksome  space. 
Had  it  of  secret  aught  to  tell, 
That  locked  up  darkness  kept  it  well. 
I  turned,  and  lo  !  by  my  side  there  stood 
A  being  of  strangest  naturehood. 
Startled,  I  glanced  him  o'er  and  o'er, 
Wondering  I  noted  him  not  before. 
His  form  was  stooped  with  the  weight  of  years, 
And  on  his  cheek  was  a  trace  of  tears  ; 
Over  all  his  face  a  shade  of  pain 
That  deepened  and  vanished,  and  came  again. 
Fixed  he  his  woeful  eyes  on  me — 
Through  my  very  soul  they  seemed  to  see. 
And  lightly  he  laid  his  hand  on  mine — 
His  hand  was  cold  as  the  vestal  shrine. 
"  Tis  haunted,"  he  said,  "  haunted,  and  he 
Who  dares  at  night-noon  go  with  me 
To  this  cursed  place,  by  phantoms  trod, 


MYSTERY    OF    CARMEL.  II 

Must  fear  not  devil,  man,  nor  God." 

"  Tell  me  the  story,"  I  cried,  "tell  me  !" 

And  frightened  was  I  at  my  bravery. 

A  curious  smile  his  thin  lips  curved, 

That  well  had  my  bravery  unnerved. 

And  this  is  the  story  he  told  that  day 

To  me  in  the  Mission  old  and  gray — 

The  Mission  Carmel  at  Monterey. 

"  Each  midnight,  since  have  seventy  years 
Begun  their  cycle  around  the  spheres, 
Two  faces  have  looked  from  that  window  there. 
One  is  a  woman's,  young  and  fair, 
With  tender  eyes  and  floating  hair. 
Love,  and  regret,  and  dumb  despair, 
Are  told  in  each  tint  of  the  fair  sweet  face. 
The  other  is  crowned  with  a  courtly  grace, 
Gazing,  with  all  a-  lover's  pride, 
On  the  beautiful  woman  by  his  side. 
Anon  !  a  change  flits  o'er  his  mien, 
And  baffled  rage  in  his  glance  is  seen. 
Paler  they  grow  as  the  hours  go  by, 
With  the  pallor  that  comes  with  the  summons  to  die. 
Slowly  fading,  and  shrinking  away, 
Clutched  in  the  grasp  of  a  gaunt  decay, 
Till  the  herald  of  morn  on  the  sky  is  thrown; 
Then  a  shriek,  a  curse,  and  a  dying  moan, 
Comes  from  that  death-black  window  there. 
A  mocking  laugh  rings  out  on  the  air, 


12  MYSTERY    OF    CARMEL. 

From  that  darkful  place,  in  the  nascent  dawn, 

And  the  faces  that  looked  from  the  window  are  gone. 

Seventy  years,  when  the  Spanish  flag 

Floated  above  yon  beetling  crag, 

And  this  dearthful  mission  place  was  rife 

With  the  panoply  of  busy  life ; 

Hard  by,  where  yon  canyon,  deep  and  wide, 

Sweeps  it  adown  the  mountain  side, 

A  cavalier  dwelt  with  his  beautiful  bride. 

Oft  to  the  priestal  shrive  went  she; 

As  often,  stealthily,  followed  he. 

The  padre  Sanson  absolved  and  blessed 

The  penitent,  and  the  sin-distressed, 

Nor  ever  before  won  devotee 

So  wondrous  a  reverence  as  he. 

A-night,  when  the  winds  played  wild  and  high, 

And  the  ocean  rocked  it  to  the  sky, 

An  earthquake  trembled  the  shore  along, 

Hushing  on  lip  of  praise  its  song, 

And  jarred  to  its  center  this  Mission  strong. 

When  the  morning  broke  with  a  summer  sun, 

The  earth  was  at  rest,  the  storm  was  done. 

Still  the  Mission  tower'd  in  its  stately  pride; 

Still  the  cottage  smiled  by  the  canyon-side; 

But  never  the  priest  was  there  to  bless, 

And  the  cottage  roof  was  tenantless. 

Vainly  they  sought  for  the  padre,  dead, 

For  the  cottage  dwellers ;  amazed,  they  said 

Twas  a  miracle;  but  since  that  day 


MYSTERY    OF    CARMEL.  13 

There's  a  ghost  in  the  Mission  old  and  gray — 
The  Mission  Carmel  of  Monterey. 

"  A  sequel  there  is  to  that  tale,"  said  he, 
"Of  the  way  and  the  truth  I  hold  the  key." 
"Show  me  the  way,"  I  cried,  "Show  me 
To  the  depth  of  this  curious  mystery  !  " 
He  waved  me  to  follow;  my  heart  stood  still 
Under  the  ban  of  a  mightier  will 
Than  mine.     A  terror  of  icy  chill 
O'er-shivered  my  being  from  hand  to  brain, 
Freezing  the  blood  in  each  pulsing  vein, 
As  I  followed  this  most  mysterious  guide 
Through  the  solid  floor  at  the  chancel  side, 
Into  a  passage  whose  stifling  breath 
Reeked  with  the  pestilence  of  death. 
Down  through  a  subterranean  vault, 
Over  broken  steps  with  never  a  halt, 
Till  we  stood  in  the  midst  of  a  spacious  room, 
A  charnel-house  in  its  shroud  of  gloom. 
Only  a  window,  narrow  and  small, 
Left  in  the  build  of  the  heavy  wall, 
Through  which  the  flickering  sunbeams  died, 
Showed  passway  to  the  world  outside. 
Slowly  my  eyes  to  the  darkness  grew, 
And  I  saw  in  the  gloom,  or  rather  knew, 
That  my  feet  had  touched  two  skeleton  forms, 
One  closely  clasped  in  the  other's  arms. 
Recoiling,  I  shuddered  and  turned  my  face 


14  MYSTERY    OF    CARMEL. 

From  the  fleshless  mockery  of  embrace. 

Again  o'er  a  heap  of  rubbish  and  rust, 

I  stumbled  and  caught  in  the  moth  and  dust 

What  hardly  a  sense  of  my  soul  believes — 

A  mold-stained  package  of  parchment  leaves  ! 

A  hideous  bat  flapped  into  my  face  ! 

O'ercome  with  horror,  I  fled  the  place, 

And  stood  again  with  my  curious  guide 

On  the  solid  floor,  at  the  chancel's  side. 

But,  lo  !  in  a  moment  the  age-bowed  seer 

Was  a  darkly  frowning  cavalier, 

Gazing  no  longer  in  woeful  trance, 

Vengeance  blazed  in  his  every  glance. 

Then  a  mocking  laugh  rang  the   Mission  o'er, 

And  I  stood  alone  by  the  chapel  door ; 

And,  save  for  the  mold-stained  parchment  leaves, 

I  had  thought  it  the  vision  that  night-mare  weaves. 

Hardly  a  sense  of  my  soul  believes, 

Yet  I  held  in  my  hand  the  parchment  leaves. 

Careful  I  noted  them,  one  by  one, 

Each  was  a  letter  in  rhyming  run, 

Written  over  and  over,  in  tenderest  strain, 

By  fingers  that  never  will  write  again. 

I  strung  them  together,  a  tale  to  tell, 

And  named  it  "The  Mystery  of  Carmel." 

And  these  are  the  letters  I  found  that  day, 

In  the  mission  ruin,  old  and  gray — 

The  Mission  Carmel  of  Monterey  : 


MYSTERY    OF    CARMEL.  15 

TO    THE    HOLY    FATHER    SANSON. 

Oh,  holy  father,  list  thee  to  my  prayer ! 

I  may  not  kneel  to  thee  as  others  kneel, 
And  tell  my  heart-aches  with  the  suppliant's  air, 

But  fiercer  burns  the  fire  I  must  conceal. 

My  soul  is  groping  in  the  mists  of  doubt, 
The  sunlight  and  the  shadows  all  are  gone, 

Only  a  cold,  gray  cloud  my  life  's  about, 
Nor  ever  vision  of  a  fairer  dawn. 

A  father  ne'er  my  brow  in  loving  smoothed, 
Nor  taught  my  baby  tongue  to  lisp  his  name  ; 

No  mother's  voice  my  childish  sorrows  soothed, 
Nor  sought  my  wild,  imperious  will  to  tame. 

Yet  ran  my  life,  like  some  bright  bubbling  spring, 
Too  full  of  thoughtless  happiness  to  care 

If  that  the  future  might  more  gladness  bring, 
Or  might  its  skies  be  clouded  or  be  fair. 

Afar  upon  the  purple  hills  of  Spain — 

Since  waned  the  moons  of  half  a  year  ago— 

I  sported,  reckless  as  the  laughing  main, 

Nor  dreamed  in  life  a  thought  of  grief  to  know. 

To-day  I  pine  here  in  a  chain  whose  gall 
Is  bitterer  than  drop  of  woimwood  brought 

From  that  salt  sea  where  nothing  lives,  and  all 
The  recompense  my  willfulness  has  brought. 

^SE;U»S^ 

(UNIVERSITY) 

^^C^L  I F  O  R  N I  A-^^ 


1 6  MYSTERY    OF    CARMEL. 

Oh,  holy  father,  list  thee  to  my  prayer  ! 

And  though  I  may  not  kneel  as  others  kneel, 
And  tell  my  heart-aches  with  a  suppliant  air, 

I  crave  thy  grace  a  sickened  soul  to  heal. 

Here,  close  beside  this  sacred  font  of  gold, 
My  humble  prayer,  oh,  father,  I  will  lay, 
With  all  its  weight  of  misery  untold; 

And  wait  impatient  that  which  thou  wilt  say. 

REYENITA. 
TO   REYENITA. 

When  to  the  font,  this  morn,  my  lips  I  pressed, 
A  fairy's  gift  my  fingers  trembled  o'er ; 

A  sweeter  prayer  ne'er  'smile  of  angel  blessed, 
Nor  gemmed  a  tiar  that  the  priesthood  wore. 

The  secret  of  thy  grief  I  may  not  know, 
Since  that  thy  lips  refuse  the  tale  to  tell : 

Methinks,  dear  child,  it  was  the  sound  of  woe 
That  woke  an  echo  in  my  heart's  deep  well. 

The  wail  of  a  spirit  that  a-yearning  gropes 
In  darkness  for  the  sunlight  that  is  fled  ; 

A  broken  idol  in  secret  wept,  and  hopes — 

Crushed  hopes — that  are  to  thee  as  are  the  dead. 

A  tender  memory  ling'ring  yet  of  when 

Each  bounding  pulse  beat  faster  with  its  joy ; 

A  something  that  allured,  and  won,  and  then 
With  waking  fled,  and  years  may  not  destroy 


MYSTERY    OF    CARMEL.  1 7 

The  impress  which  it  left  upon  thy  brain. 

But  seek  thee,  child,  grief's  ravaging  to  stay  ?j 
Thy  tears  might  fall  as  falls  the  show'ring  rain, 

They  could  not  wash  the  heart's  deep  scars  away. 

Repine  thee  not ;  shroud  not  thy  faith  in  gloom ; 

Shrink  not  to  meet  a  disappointment's  frown ; 
Away  beyond  the  narrow  bordered  tomb, 

Who  here  have  borne  the  cross  may  wear  the  crown. 

SANSON. 

TO  SANSON. 

Whisper  to  him,  fairies,  whisper — 

Whisper  softly  in*  his  ear 
That  some  one  is  waiting,  waiting, 

Listening  his  step  to  hear. 

Fairies,  if  he  knew  his  presence 

Would  a  demon's  spell  allay, 
Would  he  heed  your  timid  whisperings  ? 

Would  he — will  he  come  to-day  ? 

REYENITA. 

TO  REYENITA. 

Fairies  whisper,  ever  whisper, 

In  the  silence  of  the  night, 
And  he  catches  the  soft  murmurs 

Floating  in  the  starry  light. 


1 8  MYSTERY    OF    CARMEL. 

And  they  tell  him  ;  yes,  they  tell  him, 
All  in  accents  sweet  and  clear, 

Of  the  beautiful  Hereafter 
That  is  ever  drawing  near. 

There  are  loved  Ones  waiting,  waiting, 

For  his  footfall  on  the  shore ; 
.     They  will  welcome  his  appearing— 
They  will  greet  him  o'er  and  o'er. 

SANSON. 
TO  SANSON. 

Oh,  would  the  fairies  to  her  whisper 
The  truths  which  they  to  him  impart, 

Teach  her  a  beautiful  hereafter, 
A  Heaven  to  bless  a  tired  heart. 

Yet  thinks  she  that  the  dear  ones  waiting 
Would  envy  not  the  boon  she  craves — 
'  To  rear  fair  friendship's  sacred  altar 

Where  love  and  hope  sleep  in  their  graves. 

She  knows  not  that  a  loving  welcome 

Will  wait  her  in  a  realm  of  light, 
Nought  of  a  future  meeting  whispers, 

No  faith  illumes  her  soul's  dark  night. 

But  oh  !    she  knows,  has  by  experience, 
The  saddest  of  all  lessons  learned  ; 

Knows  that  she  gathered  dead-sea  apples, 
Which  in  her  hands  to  ashes  turned. 


MYSTERY    OF    CARMEL.  19 

She  knows  into  a  trammelled  torrent, 
Is  changed  her  life's  free  flowing  tide; 

Knows  that  her  hand  no  oar  is  holding, 
With  which  her  drifting  bark  to  guide. 

She  knows,  yes,  knows  that,  like  the  mirage, 
Which  for  the  thirsty  traveler  gleamed, 

The  sweet  ideal  she  fondly  cherished 
Was  never  there  ;  it  only  seemed. 

If  what  she  knows  is  to  her  proven 

A  false,  deluding,  fleeting  show, 
Can  she,  generous  spirit,  can  she 

Trust  blindly  what  she  does  not  know  ? 

But  if  for  this  he  shuts  against  her 

The  heart  that's  shining  in  his  eyes, 
She'll  bring  the  gift  that  for  the  Peri 

Unbarred  the  gate  of  paradise. 

REYENITA. 

TO  REYENITA. 

If  she'll  let  him  be  her  teacher 

In  the  mysteries  of  life, 
In  the  spirit's  grand  unfoldment 

Far  beyond  this  world  of  strife, 

A  sacred  altar  he.  will  build  her, 

And  dedicate  to  friendship  true, 
And  this  shall  be  their  bond  of  union, 

More  constant  than  all  others  knew. 

SANSON. 


20  MYSTERY    OF    CARMEL. 

TO  SANSON. 

Kind  teacher,  henceforth  be  it  mine 
To  kneel  at  friendship's  sacred  shrine, 
And  hope's  bright  budding  flowers  entwine 

Into  a  garland  for  thy  brow. 
And  thou  shalt  wait  not  for  the  hours 
That  gem  creation's  radiant  towers, 
To  woo  thee  to  elysian  bowers, 

But  wear  it  now. 

Too  long  a  dreamer  have  I  been, 
Too  long  life's  dark  side  only  seen ; 
And  if  thou  canst,  while  thus  I  kneel, 
The  mystery  of  life  reveal, 

Then  gladly  will  I  learn  of  thee. 
For  as  on  flowers  the  dewdrops  fall, 
As  sunbeams  break  the  storm-cloud's  pall, 
As  pardon  comes  to  lives  which  blame 
Has  crushed  beneath  its  weight,  so  came 

Thy  sympathy  to  me. 

REYENITA. 

TO  REYENITA. 

Life  is  love,  and  only  love, 
Love  that  had  its  source  above. 
It  wreathes  with  flowers  the  chastening  rod, 
And  diamond  decks  the  throne  of  God. 

SANSON. 


MYSTERY  OF  CARMEL.  21 

TO  SANSON. 

If  "  life  is  love,  and  only  love," 

Then  never  have  I  lived  before ; 
But  for  love's  sake  I'll  sit  me  down 

And  careful  con  the  lesson  o'er. 

I  fain  would  win  the  shining  goal, 

So  far  away,  so  seeming  fair, 
But  could  not  reach  its  hights  alone  ; 

Then,  teacher,  take  me,  take  me  there. 

REYENITA. 

TO  REYENITA. 

Thy  teacher,  then,  will  take  thee  there, 

And  ever  watch  with  tender  care, 
To  guard  thy  way  to  loftiest  aim, 

And  his  reward  thy  love  shall  claim. 

SANSON. 

TO  SANSON. 

O,  inconsistent  teacher, 

He'd  knowledge  give  away  ; 
Fill  head  and  heart,  from  tome  of  art, 

Then  take  me  for  his  pay. 

He'd  kindly  lead  me  to  the  realm 

Where  joyous  freedom  reigns, 
He'd  teach  my  soul  love's  sweet  control, 

Then  claim  it  for  his  pains. 

REYENITA. 


22  MYSTERY  OF  CARMEL. 

TO  REYENITA. 

Ah  !  Reyenita,  do  not  charge 

To  selfishness  thy  teacher's  plea, 
He  seeks  thine  every  wish  to  bless, 

His  deepest  fault  is  loving  thee. 
"  Heaven's  kingdom,"  said  the  Nazerene, 
"  Is  in  the  heart ;"  sweet  fairy  queen, 
Thou  rulest  alone  this  realm  of  mine, 
Canst  say  I  have  no  place  in  thine  ? 

SANSON. 

TO  SANSON. 

They  boast  of  Ormuz'  milk-white  pearls, 

The  ruby's  magic  art, 
And  proudly  wear  the  crystal  drop 

That  fires  the  diamond's  heart. 
And  these  may  admiration  claim, 

And  countless  wealth  may  sway, 
But  rarer  gem  was  given  to  me, 

One  golden  summer  day. 

Its  wondrous  tints,  a  brilliant  glow, 

Emit  in  darkest  gloom, 
A  sweeter  fragrance  'round  it  clings, 

Than  breath  of  eastern  bloom. 

Were  all  earth's  costly  jewels  thrown 

In  one  great  glittering  heap, 
They  could  not  buy  for  ev'n  a  day 

The  gem  I'd  selfish  keep. 


MYSTERY    OF    CARMEL.  23 

Yet  'twas  not  won  from  pearly  depths, 

Nor  gleaned  from  diamond  mine, 
Nor^all  the  chemist's  subtlety 

Its  substance  could  define. 

It  ne'er  was  set  in  band  of  gold 

Some  dainty  hand  to  grace, 
Ne'er  shone  in  diadem  to  deck 

A  brow  of  kingly  race.     . 

For  me  alone,  a  wizard  spell 

Lies  prisoned  in  its  beams, 
Hours  of  enchanted  ecstacy 

And  days  of  Eden  dreams. 

Wouldst  know  the  precious  gift  with  which 

For  worlds  I  would  not  part  ? 
The  priceless  jewel  is  thy  love, 

Its  setting  is  my  heart. 

REYENITA. 

TO  REYENITA. 

O,  in  the  hush  of  midnight's  hour, 

When  darkness  sleeps  on  land  and  sea, 

How  oft  in  dreams,  sweet  fragile  flower, 
Thou'st  come  to  bless  and  comfort  me. 

O,  in  the  hush  of  midnight's  hour, 

How  oft  from  taunting  dreams  I  start, 
To  find  thee  but  a  fancy  flower — 

Thou  cherished  idol  of  my  heart. 

SANSON. 


24  MYSTERY    OF    C  ARM  EL. 

TO    SANSON. 

I've  a  beautiful  home,  where  I  live  in  my  dreams, 

So  joyous  and  happy — an  Eden  it  seems  ; 

All  beautiful  things  in  nature  and  art 

Are  blending  to  rapture  the  mind  and  the  heart  ; 

No  discords  to  jar,  no  dissensions  arise, 

Tis  calm  as  Italia's  ever  blue  skies, 

When  kissed  by  the  bright  rosy  blush  of  the  morn  ; 

And  a  voice  of  the  spheres  on  the  breezes  is  borne, 

Soft  as  the  murmur  of  sea-tinted  shells, 

Sweet  as  the  chiming  of  far  away  bells  ; 

And  grief  cannot  enter,  nor  trouble  nor  care, 

And  the  proud  peerless  prince  of  my  soul,  he  is  there. 

In  my  beautiful  home  from  the  cold  world  apart, 
He  holds  me  so  close  to  his  fast  beating  heart ; 
More  enchanting  his  voice  than  the  syren-wrapt  song, 
O'er  the  wind-dimpled  ocean  soft  floating  along, 
As  he  whispers  his  love  in  love's  low  passioned  tone, 
Such  home,  and  such  lover,  no  other  has  known. 

REYENITA. 

TO  REYENITA. 

O,  let  us  leave  this  world  behind — 
Its  gains,  its  loss,  its  praise,  its  blame- 
Not  seeking  fame,  nor  fearing  shame, 
Some  far  secluded  land  we'll  find, 
And  build  thy  dream-home,  you  and  I, 
And  let  this  foolish  world  go  by. 


MYSTERY    OF    CARMEL.  25 

A  paradise  of  love  and  bliss  ! 
Delicious  draughts  in  Eden  bowers, 
Of  peace,  and  rest,  and  quiet  hours, 
We'll  drink,  for  what  we've  missed  in  this. 
The  shafts  of  malice  we'll  defy, 
And  let  this  foolish  world  go  by. 

SANSON. 

TO  SANSON. 

Life  of  my  life,  my  soul's  best  part, 
I  could  not  live  without  thee  now ; 
And  yet,  this  love  must  break  my  heart, 
Or  break  a  sacred  vow. 

Which  shall  it  be  ?  an  answer  oft 
From  puzzling  doubts  I've  sought  to  wake  ; 
Must  joy,  or  misery,  hence  be  mine, 
Must  heart  or  promise  break  ? 

Alone,  Heaven's  highest  court  would  prove 
A  desolated  land  to  me  ; 
Earth's  barest,  barren  desert  wild, 

A  paradise  with  thee. 

REYENITA. 

TO    REYENITA. 

Thou  hast  beamed  on  my  pathway,  a  vision  of  light, 

To  guide  and  to  bless  from  afar ; 
To  illume  with  thy  smile  the  dead  chill  of  the  night, 

My  star,  my  bright,  beautiful  star. 

2 


26  MYSTERY    OF    CARMEL. 

The  sun  pales  before  thee,  the  moon  is  a  blot 
On  the  sky  where  thine  own  splendors  are ; 

And  dark  is  the  day  where  thy  presence  is  not, 
My  star,  my  bright,  beautiful  star. 

SANSON. 

TO  SANSON. 

O  love,  do  not  call  me  a  star ! 
'Tis  too  cold  and  bright,  and  too  far 
Away  from  your  arms  ;  I  would  be, 
The  life  drops  that  flow  in  your  veins, 
The  pulses  that  throb  in  your  heart. 
My  bosom  should  be  the  warm  sea 
Of  forgetfulness,  tinged  with  the  stains 
Of  the  sunset,  when  day-dreams  depart ; 
You  should  drink  at  its  fountain  of  kisses, 
Drink  mad  of  its  fathomless  deep ; 

Submerged  in  an  ocean  of  blisses, 
I'd  be  something  to  kiss  and  to  keep. 
Loving,  and  tender,  and  true, 
I'd  be  nearer,  oh  !  nearer  to  you 
Than  the  glittering  meteors  are ; 
Then,  love,  do  not  call  me  a  star. 

REYENITA. 

TO  REYENITA. 

Thou  'st  made  for  me  an  atmosphere  of  life  ; 
The  very  air  is  brighter  from  thine  eyes, 


MYSTERY    OF    CARMEL.  2J 

They  are  so  soft  and  beautiful,  and  rife 
With  all  we  can  imagine  of  the  skies. 

0  woman,  where  is  thy  resistless  power ; 
I  swore  the  livery  of  Heaven  to  grace, 

Yet  stand,  to-day,  a  sacrilegious  tower, 
Perjured  by  the  witchery  of  thy  face. 

SANSON. 

TO  SANSON. 
Then,  love,  I'll  give  thee  back  thy  perjured  vow  ; 

1  would  not  hold  thee  with  one  pleading  breath ; 
It  may  be  best  to  leave  the  pathway  now, 

That  can  but  lead  to  death. 
I'll  crush  the  agonies  that  burning  swell, 

And  say  farewell. 

REYENITA. 

TO  REYENITA. 

"  Farewell  ?  "     No,  not  farewell,  I'  11  worship  ever 

Thy  form  divine. 
No  death's  despair,  no  voice  of  doom  shall  sever 

My  heart  from  thine. 

Thou  'st  crowned  me  with  thy  love  and  bade  me  wear  it, 

I  kiss  the  shrine. 
I  will  not  give  thee  up,  nay,  here  I  swear  it, 

That  thou  art  mine. 


28  MYSTERY    OF    CARMEL. 

A  desecrated  holiness  is  o'er  me, 

I've  held  the  Thyrsus  cup  ; 
I've  dared  the  thunderbolts  of  Heaven  for  thee, 

I  will  not  give  thee  up. 

SANSON. 

World,  farewell  ! 

And  thou  pale  taper  light,  by  whose  fast-dying  flame  I 
Tvrite  these  words — the  last  my  hand  shall  pen — fare 
well  !  What  is  't  to  die  ?  To  be  shut  in  a  dungeon's 
walls  and  starved  to  death  ?  She  knows,  and  soon  will 
I.  She  sought  to  learn  of  me,  and  I  to  teach  to  her, 
the  mystery  of  life.  Ha,  ha  !  Who  claimed  her  by  the 
church's  law  has  given  us  both  to  learn  the  mystery  of 
death.  What  was  't  I  loved  ?  The  eyes  that  thrilled 
me  through  and  through  with  their  magnetic  subtlety  ? 
They  're  there,  set  on  my  face  ;  but  where  's  their  lifened 
light  ?  What  was  't  I  loved  ?  The  mouth  whose  coral 
redness  I  have  buried  in  my  own  ?  'Tis  there,  shrunk 
'gainst  two  rows  of  dead  pale  pearls,  and  cold  and  color. 
less  as  lip  of  statue  carved  in  marble.  Was  it  the  form 
whose  perfect  outline  stamped  it  with  divinity  ?  It  's 
there,  but  'reft  of  all  its  winsome  roundness,  and  stiffen 
ing  in  the  chill  of  death.  It  makes  me  cold  to  look  upon 
its  rigidness.  But  just  this  hour  the  breath  went  out ; 
was  't  that  I  loved  ?  'Twas  this  I  clasped  and  kissed. 
What  is  it  that  we  Ve  christened  love,  that  glamours  men 
to  madness,  and  stains  with  falsehood  virgin  purity  ?  It 
made  this  grewsome  charnel  vault  a  part  of  Heaven — 


MYSTERY    OF    CARMEL.  29 

the  graves  there  of  those  murdered  knaves  made  rests  of 
roses  for  our  heads  ;  it  made  him  spring  the  bolt  and 
lock  us  in.  Where  is  the  creed's  foundation?  I've 
shrived  a  thousand  souls — I  cannot'  now  absolve  my 
own.  To  quench  this  awful  thirst,  I  cut  an  artery  in  my 
arm  and  sucked  its  blood.  The  thirstness  did  not  cease. 
They  lied.  'Twas  not  the  vultures  at  Prometheus' 
heart,  'twas  hunger  at  his  vitals  gnawed.  The  salt  drops 
that  I  swallowed  from  that  vein  have  set  my  brain  on 
fire.  What 's  that  ?  The  ground  's  a-tremble  'neath  my 
feet  as  touched  with  life.  Earth,  rend  your  breast  and 
let  me  in  !  For  anything  but  this  dire  darkness,  made 
alive  with  vengeful  eye-balls — his  eyes  !  They  glare  with 
hate  at  me.  I  heard  him  laugh  but  now.  For  anything 
but  this  most  loving  corpse  whose  head  caressing  rests 
it  on  my  feet.  Ah,  no,  I  did  not  mean  it  thus  ;  I  would 
not  get  away  alone.  I  loved  that  corpse.  It  was  the 
sweetest  bit  of  human  frailty  that  to  man  e'er  brought  a 
blessing  or  a  curse.  I  turned  from  Bias'  holy  grail  to 
taste  its  nectar.  Hell,  throw  a-wide  your  sulphur-blaz 
oned  gates,  I  '11  grasp  it  in  my  arms  and  make  the 
plunge !  Hist !  what  was  that  ?  I  heard  him  laugh 
again.  Laugh,  fiend,  you  cannot  hurt  me  more.  Ah  ! 
Reyenita,  mine  in. life  you  were,  in  death  you  shall  be 
mine.  When  this  clogged  blood  has  stopped  the  wheels 
of  life,  I'll  put  my  arms  around  your  neck,  I'll  lay  my 
face  against  your  frozen  one,  and  thus  I'll  die.  When 
this  foul  place  has  crumbled  to  the  sunlight,  some  relic- 
hunting  lunatic  will  stumble  o'er  our  bones,  and  pitiless 


30  MYSTERY    OF    CARMEL. 

will  weave  a  tale  for  eyes  more  pitiless  to  read.  Back, 
Stygian  ghoul !  Death  's  on  me  now.  I  feel  his  rattle  in 
my  throat !  My  limbs  are  blocks  of  ice  !  My  heart  has 
tuned  it  with  the  muffled  dead-march  drum  !  A  jar  of 
crashing  worlds  is  in  my  ears  !  A  drowsy  faintness  creeps 
upon — 


The  seal  is  broken,  the  mystery  fell  ; 
You  have  read  the  letters,  what  do  they  tell  ? 
Do  they  tell  you  the  story  they  told  that  day 
To  me,  in  the  Mission  old  and  gray— 

The  Mission  Carmel  at  Monterey  ? 


WASTED    HOURS.  31 


WASTED  HOURS. 

If  that  thy  hand  with  heart-will  sought, 
To  work  with  Christ-love  underlying, 
But  ere  thou  hadst  accomplished  aught 
Time  passed  thee  by  while  vainly  trying, 
The  wasted  hour,  the  vain  endeavor, 
Will  wait  thee  in  the  far  forever. 

If  thou  hast  toiled  from  dawn  till  eve, 

But  felt  no  thrill  of  joy  in  giving, 

No  heart  made  glad,  no  want  relieved, 

Lived  but  for  selfish  love  of  living, 

Though  idle  hours  went  by  thee  never, 
The  hours  are  lost  to  thee  forever. 


ROCKING  THE  BABY. 

I  hear  her  rocking  the  baby — 
Her  room  is  just  next  to  mine— 

And  I  fancy  I  feel  the  dimpled  arms 
That  round  her  neck  entwine, 

As  she  rocks,  and  rocks  the  baby, 
In  the  room  just  next  to  mine. 


32  ROCKING    THE    BABY. 

I  hear  her  rocking  the  baby 

Each  day  when  the  twilight  comes, 
And  I  know  there's  a  world  of  blessing  and  love 

In  the  "  baby  bye  "  she  hums. 
I  can  see  the  restless  fingers 

Playing  with  "  mamma's  rings,  " 
And  the  sweet  little  smiling,  pouting  mouth, 

That  to  hers  in  kissing  clings, 
As  she  rocks  and  sings  to  the  baby, 

And  dreams  as  she  rocks  and  sings. 

I  hear  her  rocking  the  baby, 

Slower  and  slower  now, 
And  I  know  she  is  leaving  her  good-night  kiss 

On  its  eyes,  and  cheek,  and  brow. 
From  her  rocking,  rocking,  rocking, 

I  wonder  would  she  start, 
Could  she  know,  through  the  wall  between  us,. 

She  is  rocking  on  a  heart. 
While  my  empty  arms  are  aching 

For  a  form  they  may  not  press, 
And  my  emptier  heart  is  breaking 

In  its  desolate  loneliness, 
I  list  to  the  rocking,  rocking, 

In  the  room  just  next  to  mine, 
And  breathe  a  prayer  in  silence, 

At  a  mother's  broken  shrine, 
For  the  woman  who  rocks  the  baby 

In  the  room  just  .next  to  mine. 


i  DON'T  CARE."  33 


."I  DON'T  CARE." 

"  I  don't  care,"  we  hear  it  oft 

And  oft,  the  words  are  seeming  fair ; 
But  many  a  heartache  lies  beneath 
A  careless  "  I  don't  care  !"  ' 

In  every  age,  from  every  tongue, 

The  vain  assertions  fell ; 
But  oh,  trust  not  the  cheating  words, 

For  never  the  truth  they  tell ! 
Hearts  may  grow  sick  with  hope  deferred, 

Be  crushed  with  black  despair, 
But  lips,  too  proud  to  own  defeat, 

Will  whisper,  "  I  don't  care  !" 

A  thoughtless  friend  flings  out  in  jest- 
As  jesters  always  do — 

A  deadly  shaft  you  wince  beneath, 
You  know  the  story's  true  ; 

But  while  the  dart  has  pierced  your  heart, 
And  poisoned,  rankles  there, 

You  look  amused,  and  answer  with 
A  smiling,  "  I  don't  care  !" 

When  Fortune's  favors  are  withdrawn, 

And  friends  like  shadows  fled, 
When  all  your  fondest  dreams  are  gone, 


34  "i  DON'T  CARE." 

Your  dearest  hopes  are  dead, 
You  curse  the  fickle  goddess,  then, 

Who  wrought  you  such  despair, 
Yet  hide  chagrin  beneath  a  frown, 

And  mutter,  "  I  don't  care  !  " 

The  veteran,  battle-scarred,  who  fills 

A  nation's  honored  place, 
Feels  keener  than  his  sabers  point, 

Unmerited  disgrace. 
With  indignation  all  aflame 

He  meets  some  rival's  stare  ; 
But  for  all  answer  gives  the  world 

A  freezing  "  I  don't  care  !  " 

A  woman's  heart  is  trifled  with, 

Her  hopes  are  ground  to  dust, 
Her  proud  soul  humbled  with  neglect, 

Betrayed  her  sacred  trust, 
Yet,  while  to  desperation  stung, 

With  death  and  ruin  there, 
She'll  crush  the  tears  and  cheat  you  with 

A  laughing  "  I  don't  care  ?  " 

"  I  don't  care  !  "  'tis  but  a  breath, 

The  words  are  seeming  fair, 
But  many  a  heartache  lies  beneath 
A  careless  "  I  don't  care  !  " 


A    STAINED    LILY.  35 


A  STAINED  LILY. 

Some  lillies  grew  by  a  brook-side, 

Tall  and  white,  and  cold, 
And  lifted  up  to  the  sunshine 

Their  great  red  hearts  of  gold. 

And  near  to  their  bed  grew  mosses, 
Rank  vines,  and  flowers  small, 

And  loathsome  weeds,  and  thistles, 
And  the  sunlight  warmed  them  all. 

Anon,  the  proud  white  lillies 
Were  gathered  one  by  one, 

Each  to  crown  a  festal 
Rarest  under  the  sun. 

One  lily  stooped  to  the  brooklet, 
Her  face  she  knew  was  fair, 

And  the  face  of  the  flowing  water 
Mirrored  her  image  there. 

A  hand  upraised  in  envy, 

Or  carelessness,  or  jest, 
Flung  from  the  turbid  water, 

Mud,  on  the  lily's  breast. 


36  A    STAINED    LILY. 

And  all  the  proud,  white  lillies 
Turned  their  faces  away, 

And  nobody  plucked  that  lily, 
And  day,  and  night,  and  day 

She  wept  for  her  ruined  beauty  : 
And  the  dew-drops,  and  the  rain, 

Touched  with  her  tears,  in  pity 
Fell  on  the  muddy  stain. 

Still  stood  she  in  her  grieving 
Day,  and  night,  and  day  ; 

Nor  tears,  nor  dew,  nor  rain-drops, 
Could  fade  the  stain  away. 

Pining  in  desolation, 

Shunned  by  each  of  her  kind, 

Sought  she  a  bitter  solace 

In  creatures  of  coarser  mind. 

But  the  breath  of  the  nettle  stung  her, 
And  the  thistle's  rude  embrace 

Burned  her  sensitive  nature, 
And  scarred  the  fair,  stained  face. 

Lower  drooped  the  lily, 

And  died  at  the  feet  of  the  weeds ; 
And  only  the  tender  mosses 

Ministered  to  her  needs.. 


A    VALENTINE.  37 

And  still  the  tall  white  lillies 

Stand  as  cold,  and  proud, 
And  still  the  weeds  and  thistles 

Against  the  lillies  crowd. 

Alike  the  same  warm  sunbeams, 

On  weed  and  flower  fall, 
Alike  by  the  same  soil  nourished, 

And  the  great  God  made  them  all. 


A  VALENTINE. 

I  love  thee  for  the  soul  that  shines 
Within  thine  eyes'  soft  beaming, 

From  out  whose  depths  the  prisoned  fires 
Of  intellect  are  gleaming. 

I  love  thee  for  the  mind  that  soars 
Beyond  earth's  narrow  keeping, 

That  measures  suns,  and  stars,  and  worlds, 
Through  boundless  limits  sweeping. 

I  love  thee  for  the  voice  whose  power 

Can  in  my  heart  awaken 
To  passioned  life  each  slumbering  chord 

The  ruder  tones  have  shaken. 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

\^  CAI  iPORNlA- 


38  WHICH    ONE. 

Thou  ne'er,  perchance,  mayst  feel  the  chain 
With  which  this  love  has  bound  thee, 

Nor  dream  thee  of  the  hand  that  flung 
Its  glittering  links  around  thee. 

And  vainly  mayst  thou  deem  the  task 
Thy  captive  bonds  to  sever — 

Who  madly  dares  to  love  thee  now 
Will  love  thee  on  forever. 


WHICH  ONE. 

Each  was  as  fair  as  the  other, 
And  both  as  my  life  were  dear ; 

And  the  voices  that  lisped  me  mother, 
Heaven's  music  in  my  ear. 

One  faded  from  life — and  mother, 
And  died  in  the  summer  dawn  ; 

And  I  turned  away  from  the  other 
And  wept  for  the  child  that  was  gone. 

Then  I  lay  in  a  weird  sleep-vision, 
Before  me  an  earth  dark  scene, 

And  the  land  of  the  sweet  Elysian, 
And  only  a  grave  between. 


LI  FES    WAY.  39 

One  child  soft  called  me  mother 

Out  from  the  shining  door, 
And  smiled  and  beckoned  ;  the  other 

Unconsciously  played  on  the  floor. 

One's  path,  to  my  inward  seeing, 

Was  light  with  a  wondrous  day, 
And  led  to  the  hights  of  being, 

And  an  angel  showed  the  way. 

The  other  lay  where  Marah's 

Hot  sands  with  snares  are  strewn — 

Through  many  a  darksome  forest, 
And  the  way  was  roughly  hewn. 

A  faith  to  my  soul  was  given — 

The  weird  sleep-vision  o'er— 
And  I  turned  from  the  child  in  heaven 

To  the  child  that  played  on  the  floor. 


LIFE'S  WAY. 

Good-bye,  sweetheart,  he  said,  and  clasped  her  hand, 
And  rained  his  kisses  on  her  tear-wet  face ; 

Then  broke  away,  and  in  a  foreign  land. 

For  her  dear  sake,  sought  gold,  that  he  might  place 


40  LIFE'S    WAV. 

Love's  jewelled  crown  upon  his  queen's  fair  brow, 
And  pour  his  hard-won  treasures  at  her  feet ; 

And  swore,  than  Heaven,  than  life  itself,  his  vow 
To  her  he  held  more  sacred  and  more  sweet. 

She  waited  as  the  woman  only  may 

Whose  eyes  are  blinded  oft  with  unshed  tears  ; 

Lines  on  her  forehead  grew,  and  threads  of  gray ; 
The  weary  days  crept  into  weary  years. 

"  Oh  stars,  go  down  !  Oh  sun,  be  shrouded  now  ! 

My  love  comes  not ;  he  does  not  live,"  she  said ; 
And  brushed  the  curls  he  'd  kissed  back  from  her  brow, 

And  put  on  mourning  for  her  dead. 

And  still  as  oft  the  day  came  round  that  he 
Had  left  his  warm  good-bye  upon  her  lips, 

As  oft  she  sought  the  head-land  by  the  sea, 

And  longing  watched  the  far-off  white-sailed  ships. 

To-day,  the  low  sand-beach  was  over-strewn  ; 

Torn  sail,  and  broken  spar  and  human  form, 
'Gulfed  by  the  waves,  and  crushed,  and  then  out-thrown  — 

A  ship  went  down  in  yester-night's  wild  storm. 

She  walked  among  the  debris,  and  the  dead, 
As  some  sweet  mercy-sister  on  her  round, 

Scanning  each  up-turned  face  with  nameless  dread, 
For  aught  of  life  ;  her  tireless  searching  found 


"UNCLE  SAM'S"  SOLILOQUY.  41 

A  babe — a  waif  with  tawny  tangled  locks, 
•And  great  blue  eyes  with  wonder  brimming  o'er ; 

Of  all  the  human  freight  wrecked  on  the  rocks, 
The  only  living  thing  that  washed  ashore. 

A  pearl-gemmed  golden  case  upon  its  breast 
She  oped,  then  stared,  her  eyes  a-sudden  wild, 

A  name,  a  pictured  face  told  all  the  rest ; 
His  name — his  face — his  child  ! 


"UNCLE  SAM'S"  SOLILOQUY. 

I'm  a  century  old  and  more  to-day, — 
A  ripe  old  age  for  a  modern  man,— 

Yet  they  who  rocked  my  cradle,  they  say, 
Predicted  a  thousand  years  my  span ; 

They  christened  me  at  the  fount  of  prayer, 

And  gave  me  a  star-gemmed  robe  to  wear. 

My  first  free  breath  was  the  battle-smoke, 
And  prayerful  nurses  did  not  abhor 

The  sounds  that  first  my  ear  awoke — 
The  clash  and  din  and  shout  of  war. 

They  pressed  in  my  hand  a  crown  of  might 

And  pointed  my  way  to  the  eagle's  flight. 

3 


42  "UNCLE  SAM'S"  SOLILOQUY. 

Cannon  and  sword  were  my  playthings  to  bless, 

(Dangerous  toys  for  a  babe  to  try,) 
The  stirring  reveille  my  morn  caress, 

The  wild  tattoo  was  my  lullaby; 
And  well,  methinks,  as  the  years  have  run, 
Have  I  wrought  the  work  my  sires  begun. 

An  infant  prodigy  I,  and  ere 

Expired  a  tenth  of  my  granted  day, 

I  wrested  from  lion-grasp  the  spear — 
A  nation's  power  I  held  in  sway; 

I  broke  the  gyves  from  freedom's  graves, 

And  steam  and  lightning  I   bound  my  slaves. 

I  flung  my  starred  robe  on  the  breeze, 

From  burning  tropic  to  arctic  cold. 
On  distant  isles,  in  distant  seas, 

A  foot-hold  gained  with  sword  and  gold. 
Atlantic's  slope  and  Pacific's  strand 
I  bound  together  with  iron  band. 

But  of  late  I've  premature  grown  old  ; 

There's  something  wrong  with  the  clothes  I  wear; 
There  is  something  wrong  with  the  helm  I  hold, 

Else  I  hold  it  wrong, — there's  wrong  somewhere. 
Disease  too  has  thrown  me  his  poisoned  dart; 
His  workman  are  "  striking  "  right  at  my  heart. 

My  head  is  so  strangely  vision  thrilled 
With  plans  to  evade  the  demon's  stay, 


43 

But  all  the  plots  that  my  brain  have  filled 
Only  have  served  to  augment  his  sway, 
And  on  my  feet,  at  the  sunset's  door, 
Is  spreading  a  troublesome  grievous  sore. 

I'm  growing  ill  I  can  plainly  see, 

And  many  prescribe  my  pain  to  ease, 

But  somehow  each  medicine  proves  to  be 
"A  remedy  worse  than  the  disease." 

Though  strong  as  ever,  should  once  my  strength 

Give  way,  I  must  fall  a  fearful  length. 

My  doctors  say  they  know  the  cause, 

And  they've  gone  to  work  with  eager  zest, 

Probed  and  expounded  with  weighty  straws, 
And  leeches  applied  to  my  troubled  breast ; 

I  fee  them  well,  as  attests  my  purse, 

Bm,  day  after  day  I'm  growing  worse. 

Though  they  have  not  yet  touched  the  cause  they 
knew, 

And  are  wrangling  over  its  direful  flood, 
They  promise  to  build  me  better  than  new, 

And  stop  the  drain  on  my  famished  blood  ; 
But  lest  they're  careful  while  building  the  dam 
They'll  scoop  out  a  grave  for  "Uncle  Sam." 


44  NAY,  DO    NOT    ASK. 


NAY,  DO  M)T  ASK. 

Nay,  do  not  ask  me,  Sweet,  if  I  have  loved  before, 

Or  if,  mayhap,  in  other  years  to  be, 
A  younger,  fairer  face  than  thine  I  know, 

I'll  love  her  more  than  thee. 

What  should  it  matter  if  I've  loved  before, 
So  that  I  love  thee  now,  and  love  thee  best  ? 

What  matters  it  that  I  should  love  again 

If,  first,  the  daisy-buds  blow  o'er  thy  breast  ? 

Love  has  the  waywardness  of  strange  caprice, 
One  can  not  chain  it  to  a  recreant  heart, 

Nor,  when  around  the  soul  its  tendrils  twine, 
Can  will  the  clinging,  silken  bonds  to  part. 

It  is  enough,  I  hold  thee  prisoned  in  my  arms, 
And  drink  the  dewy  fragrance  of  thy  breath  ; 

And  earth,  and  heaven,  and  hades,  are  forgot, 
And  love  holds  carnival,  and  laughs  at  death. 

Then  do  not  ask  me,  Sweet,  if  I  have  loved  before, 
Or  if  some  day  my  heart  might  turn  from  thee  ; 

In  this  brief  hour,  thou  hast  my  soul  of  love, 

And  thou  art  Is,  and  Was,  and  May  be — all  to  me. 


A    PICTURE.  45 


A  PICTURE. 

A  little  maid,  with  sweet  brown  eyes, 
Upraised  to  mine  in  sad  surprise; 
I  held  two  tiny  hands  in  mine, 

I  kissed  the  little  maid  farewell. 
Her  cheeks  to  deeper  crimson  flushed, 

The  sweet,  shy  glances  downward  fell ; 
From  rosy  lips  came — ah  !  so  low— 
"  I  love  you,  do  not  go  ! " 

I  see  it  through  the  lapse  of  years — 
This  picture,  ofttimes  blurred  with  tears. 
No  tiny  hands  in  mine  are  held, 

No  sweet  brown  eyes  my  pulses  wake- 
Only  in  memory  a  voice 

E'er  bids  me  stay  for  love's  sweet  sake. 


HANG  UP  YOUR  STOCKING. 

Laugh,  little  bright-eyes,  hang  up  your  stocking  ; 

Don't  count  the  days  any  more  ; 
Old  Santa  Claus  will  soon  be  knocking, 

Knocking, 
Knocking  at  the  door. 


46  HANG    UP    YOUR    STOCKING. 

Through  the  key-hole  slyly  peeping, 
Down  the  chimney  careful  creeping, 
When  the  little  folks  are  sleeping, 
Comes  he  with  his  pack  of  presents. 
Such  a  grin  !  but.  then  so  pleasant 
You  would  never  think  to  fear  him  ; 
And  you  can  not,  must  not  hear  him. 
He's  so  particular,  you  know, 
He'd  just  pick  up  his  traps  and  go 
If  but  one  little  eye  should  peep 
That  he  thought  was  fast  asleep. 
Searching  broomstick,  nails,  and  shelf, 
Till  he  finds  the  little  stocking— 
Softly  lest  you  hear  his  knocking— 
Smiling,  chuckling  to  himself, 
He  fills  it  from  his  Christmas  store, 
And  out  he  slips  to  hunt  for  more. 

Then  laugh,  little  bright-eyes,  and  hang  up  your  stocking; 

Don't  count  the  days  any  more; 
Old  Santa  Claus  will  soon  be  knocking, 

Knocking, 
Knocking  at  the  door. 


OPENING  THE  GATE  FOR  PAPA.          47 

UNIVERSITT 


OPENING  THE  GATE  FOR  PAPA. 

Hurrying  out  to  the  gateway 

Go  two  little  pattering  feet  ; 
Eagerly  out  through  the  palings 

Peer  two  little  eyes,  bright  and  sweet. 

A  footstep  as  eager  is  answering 
The  sweet  eyes  that  paitently  wait, 

And  papa  is  kissing,  and  blessing 
The  baby  that  opens  the  gate. 

And  every  day  all  the  long  Summer, 

At  noontime  and  evening  late, 
The  little  one's  watching  for  papa- 

Waiting  to  open  the  gate. 

And  now  the  bright  Summer  is  ended, 
And  Autumn's  gay  mantle  unrolled  ; 

The  maple  leaves  wooing  the  breezes 
Are  gorgeous  in  crimson  and  gold. 

At  noonday  the  face  at  the  gateway 
Is  flushed  with  a  feverish  glow, 

At  night  the  bright  head  on  the  pillow 
Is  tossing  in  pain  to  and  fro. 


OPENING  THE  GATE  FOR  PAPA. 

The  father  kneels  down  in  his  anguish, 
And  stifles  the  sobs  with  a  groan  ; 

He  knows  that  his  idol  is  going — 
Going  out  in  the  midnight,  alone. 

He  buries  his  face  in  the  pillow, 
Close,  close  to  the  fast  failing  breath  ; 

A  little  arm  clasps  his  neck  closely, 
A  voice  growing  husky  in  death 

Says  pleadingly,  half  in  a  whisper : 
"  Please,  darling  papa,  don't  cry  ; 

I  know  Birdie  's  going  to  Heaven — 
I  heard  doctor  say  he  will  die  ; 

"  But  I'll  ask  God  for  one  of  the  windows. 
The  pretty  star-eyes  look  out  through, 
And  when  you  come  up  with  the  angels 
I'll  sure  be  the  first  to  see  you. 

"  And  maybe  I'll  find  my  dear  mamma  ; 
And  you  '11  come  up,  too,  by-and-by, 
And  Birdie  will  watch  for  you,  papa, 
And  open  the  gate  of  the  sky." 

The  little  hand  falls  from  his  shoulder 
All  nerveless,  the  blue  eyes  dilate, 

A  shuddering  sigh,  then  the  baby 
Is  waiting  to  open  the  gate. 


WHITE    HONEYSUCKLE.  49 


WHITE  HONEYSUCKLE. 

White  honeysuckle,  "bond  of  love," 

Emblem  born  in  Orient  bowers, 
Whence  mythic  Deities  have  wooed, 

And  told  the  soul's  desire  in  flowers. 
As  sweet  thy  breath  as  Eden's  balm, 

As  sweet  and  pure.     Methinks  that  erst 
Thy  flower  was  of  our  earth  a  part, 

Some  angel  hand  the  seed  immersed 
In  fragrance  of  the  lotus'  heart, 

And  dropped  it  from  the  realm  of  calm. 
And  life  of  earth,  and  life  above, 

Thou  bindest  with  thy  "bond  of  love." 


ESTRANGEMENT. 

Only  a  l<  something  light  as  air," 

Which  never  words  could  tell, 
Yet  feel  you  that  between  your  lives 

A  cloud  has  strangely  fell ; 
Though  never  a  change  in  look  or  tone, 

A  change  your  heart  is  grieving ; 
You  sentient  feel  the  friend  you  love 

Has  deemed  you  are  deceiving. 


50  BRING    FLOWERS. 

A  promise  rashly  given  has  bound 

Your  lips  the  truth  to  screen, 
The  nameless  something  gathers  fast 

As  mist  the  hills  between  ; 
You  wrap  you  in  your  cloak  of  pride, 

The  words  are  never  spoken 
That  might  have  thrown  the  portal  wide, 

And  friendship's  tie  is  broken. 


BRING   FLOWERS. 

Bring  flowers,  bring  flowers,  thou  Queen  of  the  Spring, 
Sweet  flowers  to  garland  the  earth, 

Exotics  to  bloom  in  the  mansions  of  wealth, 
Wild  flowers  for  the  lowly  hearth. 
Bring  flowers  for  the  brave  and  strong-hearted, 
Bring  flowers  for  the  merry  and  glad, 
Bring  flowers  for  the  weak  and  despairing, 
Bring  flowers  for  the  weary  and  sad. 

Bring  flowers,  bring  flowers,  thou  Queen  of  the  Spring, 
Sweet  flowers,  the  dark  hours  to  cheer. 

Bring  flowers  for  the  little  ones,  flowers  for  the  aged, 
Bring  flowers  for  the  bridal  and  bier. 
In  this  beautiful,  sun-lighted  Springtime, 
Bring  flowers  their  fragrance  to  shed, 
To  brighten  the  homes  of  the  living, 
To  garnish  the  graves  of  the  dead. 


GOOD-BYE.  5 1 


GOOD-BYE. 

Good-bye  !     Good-bye  ! 
Once  pledged  we  fondly  o'er  and  o'er 
That  nought  should  cloud  our  love's  bright  sky ; 
Once  thought  we  that  we  could  not  stay 
Apart  and  live.     But  oh  !   for  us 
Fate  willed  it  not  to  linger  thus. 
To-day  earth's  wintry  poles  apart 
Are  further  not  than  we  in  heart, 
Nor  colder  than  our  sunless  way. 
Passion  and  pride  can  do  no  more, 
And  you  and  I  can  only  say 

Good-bye  !     Good-bye  ! 

Good-bye  !     Good-bye  ! 
So  sad  it  seems  the  sound  of  tears, 
So  sad  it  seems  life's  parting  sigh, 
And  yet,  alas  !  it  can  but  be. 
Deserted,  ghostly  wrecks  of  dreams 
Once  freighted  with  Hope's  golden  gleams, 
Wrecks  drifting  on  a  sullen  sea, 
To  mock  the  memory-haunted  years, 
Are  all  now  left  to  you  and  me. 

Good-bye  !     Good-bye  ! 


52  IN    THE    TWILIGHT. 


IX  THE  TWILIGHT. 

In  the  twilight  gray  and  shadowy, 
Deepening  o'er  the  sunset's  glow, 

Softly  through  the  mystic  dimness 
Flitting  shadows  come  and  go. 

As  my  thoughts  in  listless  wandering 
With  these  phantom  shadows  fly, 

Meseems  they  wear  the  forms  of  faces, 
Faces  loved  in  days  gone  by. 

One  by  one  I  recognize  them 
As  they  silent  gather  near ; 

Some  are  loving,  childish  faces, 
Knowing  naught  of  grief  or  care. 

Some  are  blooming,  youthful  faces, 

Victory  confident  to  win, 
Some  are  from  the  contest  shrinking, 

Wearied  with  the  strife  and  din. 

Some  are  aged,  wrinkled  faces, 
Time  life's  sands  has  nearly  run ; 

Not  a  leaflet  spared  of  Springtime, 
Not  a  furrow  left  undone. 


IN    THE    TWILIGHT.  53 

Other  faces,  sweet,  sad  faces, 

Wafted  o'er  the  Lethean  sea, 
Radiant  smile  in  twilight  shadows, 

But  they  came  not  back  to  me. 

In  the  twilight,  dreamy  twilight, 

When  the  sultry  day  is  gone, 
Quietly  o'er  vale  and  hillside, 

Tenderly  as  blush  of  dawn, 

Come  the  timid  evening  breezes, 
Sighing  through  the  Summer  leaves, 

Transient  as  thought's  pencil-paintings, 
Sweet  as  weft  that  fancy  weaves. 

And  as  shadows  in  the  twilight 

Shapeful  forms  of  faces  wear, 
So  these  dainty,  light-winged  zephyrs, 

To  my  hearing,  voices  are. 

Voices  whose  sad  intonations 

Seemingly,  as  flit  they  past, 
Bring  to  memory  hopes  long  shattered, 

Blissful  dreams  too  bright  to  last. 

Voices,  merry  laughing  voices, 

Fondly  loved  in  other  years, 
Mournfully  are  whispering  to  me 

That  their  mirth  was  drowned  in  tears. 


54  IN    THE    TWILIGHT 

Telling  of  a  fairer  fortune 
Far  away  'neath  tropic  skies, 

Telling  of  a  broken  circle, 

Scattered  friends  and  severed  ties. 

Other  kindly,  loving  voices, 
Winning  in  the  long  ago, 

Tell  me  now,  as  then  they  told  me, 
"Thou  canst  live  for  weal  or  woe." 

Are  these  weird  and  mystic  voices 
But  creations  of  the  brain  ? 

Only  in  illusive  fancy 

Must  I  hear  their  tones  again  ? 

Would  some  magic  power  lend  me 
Aid  to  stay  the  witching  tone, 

Art  to  paint  the  beauteous  picture 
Ere  its  impress  swift  has  flown. 


While  I  dreamed  the  day  has  faded, 
Stars  are  shining  overhead, 

Evening  winds  have  ceased  to  whisper, 
Twilight's  shadows  all  have  fled. 

Thus,  too  oft,  our  life-work  seemeth, 
And  we,  when  disowned  its  sway, 

Find  we  are  pursuing  phantoms, 
Shadows  in  the  twilight  gray. 


HOME. 


HOME. 

"  How  many  times  and  oft"  has  the  sweet,  sweet  word 
been  sung  in  song  and  told  in  story.  And  he  sang 
sweetest  of  home,  who  had  never  a  home  on  earth.  If 
one  to  whom  home  was  only  a  poet's  dream,  could  por 
tray  its  charms  by  only  imagination,  until  a  million  hearts 
thrilled  with  responsive  echo,  how  deeper,  how  more  in 
tense  must  be  his  longings  and  recollections  who  treas 
ures,  deep  down  in  his  heart  the  sweet  delights  and  pure 
associations  that  he  has  known,  but  never  may  know 
again.  We  do  not  appreciate  our  blessings  until  they 
have  passed.  We  do  not  try  to  gather  the  sunbeams 
until  the  clouds  have  obscured  them. 

How  many  and  many  a  youth,  brave-hearted  and  true, 
answers  with  eager  haste  the  war  call  of  his  native  land 
all  heedless  of  the  home  he  is  leaving,  and  the  loving 
arms  that  sheltered  him  there.  But  when  his  soldier's 
blood  is  crimsoning  the  sands  beneath  a  foreign  sky,  the 
thoughts  that  go  with  his  ebbing  life  are  of  home — all  of 
home. 

Who  rushes  from  his  home  out  into  the  world,  blind 
devotee  of  fortune's  phantom  goddess,  to  realize  a 
phantom  indeed,  sits  down  in  his  despondency  and  his 
despair,  to  dream  of  "dear  old  home." 


56  HOME. 

Yes,  too,  and  the  wretch — so  seemingly  depraved  that 
nothing  beautiful  or  pure  of  soul  is  left — who  flings  from 
him  his  life  in  mad  suicide,  goes  out  into  that  trackless 
eternity  with  home  upon  the  lips  of  death.  Then  if  the 
patter  of  baby's  feet,  the  glad  ring  of  children's  voices 
echo  within  the  walls  of  your  home,  if  father  and  mother, 
and  brothers  and  sisters  brighten  it  with  the  sunshine  of 
love,  enjoy  it  while  you  may,  make  it  your  heaven,  and 
be  not  in  over-haste  to  break  the  ties  that  bind  you  there. 

You  may  never  weep,  perchance,  over  a  home  made 
desolate  by  death  ;  and  yet,  time — so  surely  as  time  is — 
will  make  it  but  only  a  memory.  And  all  too  late  each 
heart  will  learn  that  it  did  not  prize  enough  the  blessed 
ness  of  home. 


WHY?  57 


WHY? 

Why  is  it  we  grasp  at  the  shadow 
That  flits  from  us  swift  as  thought, 

While  the  real  that  maketh  the  shadow 
Stands  in  our  way  unsought  ? 

And  why  do  we  wonder,  and  wonder, 
What's  beyond  the  hill-tops  of  thought  ? 

Why  is  it  the  things  that  we  sigh  for 
Are  the  things  that  we  never  can  reach  ? 

Why,  only  the  sternest  experience 
A  lession  of  patience  can  teach  ? 

And  why  hold  we  so  careless  and  lightly 
The  treasures  that  are  in  our  reach  ? 

Why  is  it  we  wait  for  the  future, 

Or  dwell  on  the  scenes  of  the  past, 
Rather  than  live  in  the  present 

Hastening  from  us  so  fast  ? 
Why  is  it  the  prizes  we  toil  for, 

So  tempting  in  fancy's  mould  cast, 
Prove,  when  to  our  lips  we  have  pressed  them, 

Only  dead-sea  apples  at  last  ? 
And  why  are  the  crowns,  and  the  crosses, 

So  wondrous  inequally  classed  ? 

4 


58  OUT    IN    THE   COLD. 

Ask  it,  ye,  over  and  over, 

Let  the  winds  waft  your  question  on  high, 
Till  memory  wanes  with  the  ages, 

Till  the  stars  in  eternity  die. 
And  out  from  the  bloom  and  the  sunshine, 

From  the  rainbow  o'erarching  the  sky, 
From  the  night  and  the  gloom  and  the  tempest, 

Echo  will  answer  you,  "  Why  ?  " 


Suggested  by  reading,  "  Lights  and  Shades  "  in  San  Francisco. 

OUT  IN  THE  COLD. 

Out  from  a  narrow,  crowded  street, 
Sick'ning  resort  of  shame  and  crime, 

Wearing  upon  her  brow  a  curse, 
Out  in  the  darkness,  lost  to  sight, 
Out  in  the  dreary  Winter  night, 

Fleeing  a  fate  than  Nessus  worse. 
On  through  the  gathering  mist  and  dew 
'Till  the  fog-wrapped  city  is  hid  from  view ; 

'Till  the  rugged  cliffs  with  the  waters  meet, 
And  the  mingled  voices  from  every  clime 

And  the  hurrying  tramp  of  reckless  feet 
Are  drowned  in  the  breakers'  sobbing  rhyme. 
But  farther  out  than  this  ocean  beach, 


OUT    IN    THE    COLD.  59 

Farther  than  Charity's  hands  will  reach, 
Farther  than  Pity  dares  to  come, 
Is  she  who  rushes,  with  white  lips  dumb, 
To  repeat  the  tale  that  too  oft  is  told — 
Out  in  the  cold. 

From  the  loathesome  dens  whose  scenes  appal, 
Whose  tainted  breath 's  the  Simoom's  blast ; 

Away  on  the  dizzying,  surf-washed  rock, 
Pausing  a  moment  upon  the  brink- 
Pausing  a  moment  perchance  to  think  ; 

Sliding  the  bolt  in  Memory's  lock, 
And  back  in  its  dusty,  haunted  hall, 
Living  again  the  vanished  past — 
Living  her  happy  childhood  o'er ; 

Chasing  the  butterflies  over  the  flowers, 
Petted  and  loved,  a  girl  again, 

Dreaming  away  the  golden  hours  ; 
Living  again  another  scene, 
Flattered  and  toasted  "beauty's  queen ;" 
Taking  again,  with  a  merry  laugh, 
From  gallant  hands  a  sparkling  draught. 
O,  angels,  tell  her  'tis  a  draught  of  woe  ! 
That  ruin  lies  in  its  amber  glow. 
Over  the  rest  let  oblivion  fall, 
Cover  it  up  with  a  funeral  pall ; 
Turn  away  with  a  shudder  and  groan, 
Let  her  live  it  over  alone. 
Few  are  the  months,  as  they  count,  since  then  ;• 


60  OUT    IN    THE   COLD. 

Short  and  joyous  they  else  had  been 

That  to  anguished  heart  and  maddened  brain 

Are  long  decades  of  woe  and  pain. 

Over,  again,  on  the  wings  of  thought, 

Treading  the  path  which  her  ruin  wrought ; 

Over  again  each  step  she  went, 

From  the  sunny  home  to  the  swift  descent, 

Where  sin  lies  hid  'neath  a  gilded  pile, 

Down  to  the  haunts  of  the  low  and  vile. 

One  more  step  and  it  all  is  done. 

Only  a  shriek  the  midnight  breaks — 
Only  a  splash  in  the  waves  below, 

A  wider  ripple  the  water  makes. 
The  rock  is  bare  by  the  ocean  side— 
A  death-white  face  with  the  ebbing  tide 
Is  floating  away  from  the  headland  hold- 
Out  in  the  cold. 

A  lifeless  form,  in  the  wintry  dawn, 

Left  on  the  sand  by  a  rising  swell : 
A  story  of  weakness,  shame,  and  wrong 

Mutely  the  frozen  features  tell. 
Noiseless  fall  on  it,  tears  of  dew, 

Over  it  softly  the  breezes  blow ; 
Wavelets,  kissing  the  tangled  hair, 

Murmur  a  requiem  sad  and  low. 
Out  to  the  barren,  bleak  hillside 

Rough  hands  bear  it  with  scorn  and  jest 
Cradled  once  in  a  mother's  arms — . 


TO   JENNIE.  6l 

Once  by  a  mother's  fond  lips  pressed — 
Under  the  clods  of  a  new-made  grave  ; 

A  rough-hewn  board  at  the  foot  and  head, 
Where  never  a  flower  of  love  shall  wave  ; 

Left  with  the  city's  nameless  dead- 
Left  with  her  fate  unwept,  untold — 
Out  in  the  cold. 


TO  JENNIE. 

Farewell  my  darling,  fare  thee  well, 

Life  hence  has  only  dearth  ; 
With  thee  it  were  too  sweet  a  dream  — 

Too  much  Heaven,  for  earth. 
Thou  dost  not  know  the  depth  of  pain 

This  parting  gives  to  me, 
Nor  how,  as  time  drags  weary  on, 

My  soul  will  sigh  for  thee. 

Each  loved  one  that  thou  leavest  here, 

Some  other  love  may  wear, 
Each  heart  will  have  some  other  heart 

Its  loneliness  to  share. 
But  I  have  nothing,  darling,  left  — 

You're  all  the  world  to  me— 
And  only  God  and  Heaven  can  know 


OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY 


62  WATCHING    THE    SHADOWS. 


WATCHING  THE  SHADOWS. 

Watching  the  shadows,  the  fire-light  shadows, 

That  gather  and  play  on  the  wall ; 
Dark,  flitting  shadows,  fanciful  shadows, 

That  gather  and  rise  and  fall. 
Reading  the  fire  shadows'  language  of  shadows, 

Pages  of  darkness  and  light — 
Watching,  watching, 

Watching  the  shadows  to-night. 

Watching  the  shadows,  the  fire-light  shadows, 

That  over  the  wall  fitful  play  ; 
Dreaming  of  shadows,  dreaming  of  shadows, 

Deep,  darker  shadows  than  they. 
Heart-shading  shadows,  souWarkening  shadows, 

Flitting  in  memory's  light — 
Dreaming,  dreaming, 
Watching  the  shadows  to-night. 

Watching  the  shadows,  the  fire-light  shadows, 

Merrily  dancing  about, 
Wondering  if  heart-shadows  vanish  like  shadows, 

When  life's  fitful  flame  has  gone  out ; 
Wondering  if  shadows  are  deep,  darker  shadows, 

^ons  of  ages  of  blight ; 

Wondering,  wondering, 

Watching  the  shadows  to-night. 


I    GIVE    THEE    BACK    THY    HEART.  63 


GIVE  THEE  BACK  THY  HEART. 

I  give  thee  back  thy  fickle  heart, 

Thy  faithless  vows  I've  spurned, 
I  bury  deep  the  blighted  hopes 

That  in  my  bosom  burned. 

Yet  who  had  thought  a  brow  so  fair, 

From  guile  so  seeming  free, 
A  voice  so  sweet,  so  winning  rare, 

So  treacherous  could  be  ? 

Who  would  have  dreamed  a  form  that  seemed 

Proud  Honor's  templed  shrine, 
Could  hold  within  an  urn  of  sin 

A  soul  so  false  as  thine  ? 

Nor  strange  'twould  be,  if  ne'er  again, 

Till  age  had  wasted  youth, 
That  heart  betrayed  by  such  as  thou, 

Could  trust  in  human  truth. 

But  go  !  and  though  thy  wiles  no  more 

Will  move  my  heart  to  strife, 
Canst  glad  thy  vain  soul  with  the  thought 

That  thou  hast  wrecked  a  life. 


64  LIGHT    BEYOND. 


LIGHT  BEYOND. 

Is  your  heart  bowed  down  with  sorrow  ; 

Does  your  lot  the  hardest  seem  ; 
Think  you  of  a  brighter  morrow, 

Of  a  fairer  future  dream. 

Have  your  prospects  all  been  blighted  ; 

Has  each  promise  proved  a  snare ; 
Deepest  wrongs  are  sometime  righted, 

Never  yield  you  to  despair. 

Has  the  slanderer's  tongue  unsparing 
Ruthless  tarnished  with  its  stain  ; 

Was  your  good  name  worth  the  wearing- 
Go  and  win  it  back  again. 

Would  you  rest  where  sunshine  lingers ; 

You  must  toil  the  darkness  through  ; 
Only  work  with  willing  fingers, 

Only  live  you  brave  and  true. 

Never  care  or  trouble  borrow, 
"Trouble's  real  if  it  seems"— 

Ever  see  a  bright  to-morrow, 

Though  you  see  it  but  in  dreams. 


A    NEGLECTED    "  WOMAN'S    RIGHT."  65 


A  NEGLECTED  "  WOMAN'S  RIGHT." 

I  have  listened  to  this  cry  of  "  Woman's  Rights,"  this 
clamoring  for  the  ballot,  for  redress  for  woman's  wrongs, 
and  I  could  but  think,  amid  it  all,  that  there  is  one 
"  woman's  right " — the  right  that  could  make  the  widest 
redress  for  woman's  wrongs — which  she  holds  in  her  own 
hands  and  does  not  exercise.  It  is  the  right  to  defend, 
to  uplift  and  ennoble  womankind ;  to  be  as  lenient  to  a 
plea  for  mercy  from  a  fallen  woman  as  though  that  plea 
had  come  from  the  lips  of  a  fallen  man ;  to  throw 
around  her  also  the  broad  mantle  of  charity,  and  if  she 
would  try  to  reform,  give  her  a  chance.  Far  be  it  from 
any  honest  woman  to  countenance  the  abandoned 
wretch  who  plies  an  unholy  calling  in  defiance  of  all 
morality,  for  her  very  breath  is  contamination  ;  but  why 
should  you  greet  with  smiles  and  warmest  handclasps 
of  friendship  the  man  who  pays  his  money  for  her 
blackened  soul  ?  When  two  human  beings  ruled  by  the 
same  mysterious  nature,  have  yielded  to  temptations  and 
fallen,  what  is  this  monster  of  social  distinction  that 
excuses  the  sin  of  one  as  a  folly  or  indiscretion,  while  it 
makes  that  of  the  other  a  crime,  which  a  lifetime  cannot 
retrieve  ?  It  is  a  strange  justice  that  condones  the  fault 
of  one  while  it  condemns  the  other  even  to  death  ;  that 
gives  to  one,  when  dead,  funeral  rite  and  Christian 
burial  and  to  the  other  the  Morgue  and  a  dishonored 


66  A    NEGLECTED    "  WOMAN'S    RIGHT." 

grave,  simply  because  one  is  a  strong  man  and  the  other 
a  weak  woman.  And  it  is  a  stranger,  sadder  truth  that 
'tis  woman's  influence  which  metes  out  this  justice  to 
woman.  Mother,  if  you  must  look  with  scorn  and  con 
tempt  upon  the  woman  who  through  her  love  for  some 
man  has  gone  down  to  destruction,  do  not  smilingly  ac 
knowledge  her  paramour  a  worthy  suitor  for  your  own 
unsullied  daughter.  Maiden,  if  you  must  sneeringly 
raise  your  white  hand  and  push  back  into  the  depths  of 
pollution  the  woman  who  seeks  to  reinstate  herself  in 
the  path  of  rectitude,  do  not  permit  the  man  who  keeps 
half  a  dozen  mistresses  to  clasp  his  arm  around  your 
waist  and  whirl  you  away  to  the  soft  measure  of  the 
"Beautiful  Blue  Danube."  If  the  ban  of  society  for 
bids  that  you  say  to  a  penitent  sin-sick  sister,  "  Go  and 
sin  no  more,"  if  you  must  consign  her  to  the  life  of  in 
famy  which  inevitably  follows  the  deaf  ear  which  you 
turn  upon  her  appeal,  then  do  it ;  but  in  God's  name  do 
not  turn  around  and  throw  open  the  doors  of  your  homes 
and  welcome  to  the  sanctity  of  your  family  altars  the 
man  who  enticed  her  to  ruin.  Ah,  woman,  by  your 
tireless  efforts  you  may  win  the  right  to  vote,  your  voice 
may  be  heard  in  the  Assembly  Halls  of  the  Nation;  but 
if  you  administer  as  one-sided  a  justice  in  political  life 
as  you  do  in  social  life,  the  reform  for  which  you  pray 
will  never  come  ! 


WOULD    YOU    CARE  ?  67 


WOULD  YOU  CARE? 

All  day  on  my  pillow  I  wearily  lay, 

With  a  stabbing  pain  at  my  heart, 
With  throbbing  temples,  and  a  feverish  thirst 

Burning,  my  lips  apart. 
If  I  longed  for  a  touch  of  your  soft,  strong  hand, 

For  you  one  little  minute  there  ; 
For  a  smile,  or  a  kiss,  or  a  word  to  bless, 

Would  you  blame  me,  love  ? — would  you  eare  ? 

When  the  long,  long,  lonesome  day  was  done, 

And  you  never  for  a  moment  came, 
If  I  tried  to  shut  you  out  of  my  heart, 

Impatient  at  your  name  ; 
If  disappointment's  bitter  sting 

Was  harder  than  pain  to  bear, 
If  I  turned  away  with  a  doubting  frown, 

Would  you  blame  me,  love  ? — would  you  care  ? 

Should  I  die  to-night,  and  you  saw  me  not 

Again  till  my  soul  had  fled 
With  its  vain  request,  and  my  features  wore 

The  white  hue  of  the  dead- 
Would  you  place  just  once,  in  a  last  caress, 

Your  hand  on  my  death-damp  hair  ? 
Would  you  give  me  a  thought,  or  a  fond  regret? 

Would  you  kiss  me,  love  ? — would  you  care  ? 


68  A    THOUGHT    OF    HEAVEN. 


A  THOUGHT  OF  HEAVEN. 

Friend  of  my  heart,  you  say  to  me 

That  your  belief  is  this — 
That  heaven  is  but  a  vision  rare, 

Of  pure,  ethereal  bliss. 

And  life  there  but  a  dream  enhanced, 

Where  never  sound  alarms  ; 
Where  flowers  ne'er  fade  and  skies  ne'er  cloud, 

And  voiceless  music  charms — 

And  save  as  see  we  in  our  dreams 

The  dear  ones  gone  before, 
The  friends  that  here  we  knew  and  loved, 

We'll  know  and  love  no  more. 

An  endless  and  unbroken  rest, 

Nor  change,  nor  night,  nor  day, 
Where  aimless,  as  in  sleep,  we'll  dream 

Eternity  away. 

Sweet  friend  of  mine,  that  Heaven  of  thine 

Methinks  is  overblest ; 
We  could  not  work  on  earth  enough 

To  need  so  long  a  rest. 


A    THOUGHT    OF    HEAVEN.  69 

Our  human  nature  could  not  be 

Content  with  rest  like  this, 
And  even  bliss  would  cloy,  if  we 

Had  nothing  else  but  bliss. 

Great  Nature's  hand,  its  every  plan, 

Has  laid  in  wise  design, 
But  what  design,  or  use,  is  in 

This  theory  of  thine  ? 

If,  when  our  earth-career  is  done, 

All  conscious  life  must  cease, 
And  we  drift  on,  and  on,  and  on, 

In  endless,  dreamy  peace— 

If  Heaven  is  but  a  mystic  spell, 

Whose  glowing  visions  thrall, 
Why  should  we  have  a  life  beyond  ? 

Why  have  a  Heaven  at  all  ? 


70  CONSOLANCE. 


CONSOLANCE. 

"Be  brave?"  why,  yes,  I  will ;  I'll  never  more  despair; 

Who  could,  with  such  sweet  comforting  as  yours  ? 
How,  like  the  voice  that  stilled  the  tempest  air, 

Your  mild  philosophy  its  reasoning  pours. 

Go  you  and  build  a  temple  to  the  skies,  and  make 

Your  soul  an  alter-offering  on  the  pile ; 
Then,  from  its  lightning-riven  ruin,  take 

Your  crushed  and  bleeding  self,  and  calmly  smile. 

When  loud,  and  fierce,  and  wild,  a  storm  sweeps  o'er 
your  rest, 

Say  that  it  soothes  you — brings  you  peace  again  ; 
Laugh  while  the  hot  steel  quivers  in  your  breast, 

And  "  make  believe  "  you  love  the  scorching  pain. 

See  every  earthly  thing  your  life  is  woven  round, 
Fall,  drop  by  drop,  until  your  heart  is  seived  ! 

Go  mad,  and  writhe,  and  moan  upon  the  ground, 

And  curse  and  die,  and  say  that  you  have  prayed  and 
lived  ! 

Then  come  to  me,  as  now,  and  I  will  take  your  hand, 
And  look  upon  your  face  and  smile  and  say : 

"  All  were  not  born  to  hold  a  magic  wand  ; 

Cheer  up,  my  friend,  you  must  be  brave  alway.M 


WHEN    THE    ROSES    GO.  71 


WHEN  THE  ROSES  GO. 

You  tell  me  you  love  me  ;  you  bid  me  believe 
That  never  such  lover  could  mean  to  deceive. 
You  tell  me  the  tale  which  a  million  times 
Has  been  told,  and  talked,  and  sung  in  rhymes ; 
You  rave  o'er  my  "eyes"  and  my  "beautiful  hair," 
And  swear  to  be  true,  as  they  always  swear ; 
But  the  wrinkles  will  grow,  and  the  roses  go, 
And  lovers  are  rovers  oft,  you  know, 
When  the  roses  go. 

I  have  heard  of  a  woman,  sweet  and  fair, 
With  dewy  lips  and  shining  hair, 
And  you  pledged  to  her,  on  your  bended  knee, 
The  self-same  vow  you  make  to  me. 
She  was  fairer  far  than  I,  I  know  ; 
She  was  pure  and  true,  and  she  loved  you  so ; 
But  the  wrinkles  will  grow,  and  the  roses  go — 
How  she  learned  that  trouble  comes,  you  know, 
When  the  roses  go. 

You're  a  man  in  each  outward  sense,  I  trow, 
With  the  stamp  of  a  god  on  your  peerless  brow. 
You  hold  my  hand  in  your  thrilling  clasp, 
And  my  heart  grows  weak  in  your  subtle  grasp, 
Till  I  blush  in  the  light  of  your  tender  eyes, 


72  THE    DIFFERENCE. 

And  dream  of  a  far-off  paradise — 
Almost  forgetting  that  ever  from  there 
Another  was  turned  in  her  bleak  despair. 
But  the  wrinkles  will  grow,  and  the  roses  go — 
I  will  answer  you,  love,  my  love,  you  know, 
When  the  roses  go. 


THE  DIFFERENCE. 

With  odds  all  against  him,  struggling  to  gain 
From  fortune  a  name,  with  life  to  maintain, 
Toiling  in  sunshine,  toiling  in  rain, 
Never  waiting  a  blessing  Heaven-sent, 
Working  and  winning  his  way  as  he  went — 
Whether  he  starved,  or  sumptuously  fared, 
Nobody  knew  and  nobody  cared. 

With  success-crowned  effort  that  fate  had  defied, 
That  wrought  out  from  fortune  what  favor  denied, 
Standing  aloof  from  the  world  in  his  pride ; 
The  niche  he  has  carved  on  fame's  slippery  wall 
Friends  are  proclaiming  with  heraldry-call. 
His  Croesus-bright  scepter  has  magical  sway, 
Yester's  indifference  solicits  to-day. 
His  daring,  his  triumph,  how  daily  he  fares, 
Every  one  knows,  and  anxiously  cares. 


BEWARE.  73 


BEWARE! 

Beautiful  maiden, 

So  daintily  fair, 
Thy  rosy-hued  lips, 

Thy  soft,  flowing  hair, 
Symmetric  perfection, 

Sweet,  winning  face, 
The  charms  that  thou  wearest 

A  palace  might  grace  ; 
And  yet  thy  bright  beauty 

May  wreek  and  despair. 
Beautiful  maiden, 

Beware  !  oh,  beware  ! 

There  are  flattering  tongues 

That  'twere  death  to  believe, 
And  lovers  who  woo 

But  to  win  and  deceive  ; 
For  innocent  feet 

There  is  many  a  snare. 
Beautiful  maiden, 

Beware  !  oh,  beware  ! 


74  A    REGRET. 


A  REGRET. 

Close  on  my  heart  was  resting 

A  sunny  golden  head, 
As  the  dim  gray  of  the  twilight 

Crept  round  with  noiseless  tread. 

"  Tell  me  a  'tory,  mamma," 

The  blue-eyed  baby  said, 
"  About  some  itty  birdie 

In  za  itty  birdie  bed. 

"  'Bout  fen  oo  was  itty 

An'  ze  mens  was  wakin'  hay 
An'  found  free  ittie  birdies 
Wiz  za  muzzer  don  away." 

"  Some  other  time,  my  darling ; 

Mamma's  tired  now." 
A  shade  of  disappointment 
Swept  over  baby's  brow. 

The  dear  blue  eyes  grew  misty ; 

O,  lips  that  lived  to  blame, 
That  kissed  and  whispered  "  sometime  "- 

That  "  sometime  "  never  came. 


"IT    IS    LIFE    TO    DIE."  75 

Again  the  dim,  gray  twilight 

Creeps  round  with  noiseless  tread, 

But  on  my  heart  is  resting 
No  sunny  golden  head. 

No  sweet  voice  pleads  with  mamma 

"  Tell  me  a  'tory  "  now, 
And  only  death  can  take  away 

The  shadow  on  my  brow. 


"IT  IS  LIFE  TO   DIE." 

"  It  is  life  to  die,"  the  muse  has  sung, 

The  prophet  words  have  rung  from'pole  to  pole, 
The  trust,  the  hope  to  which  have  many  clung, 
An  echo  woke  in  many  a  weary  soul. 

"  Ah  !  welcome  thrice  if  but  that  death  would  come 

As  sweeps  the  avalanche  from  Alpine  hight, 
As  falls  the  flashing  storm-sent  lightning-bolt, 
Resistless  in  its  terror  and  its  might. 

But  oh  !  to  die  by  slowest  slow  decay, 

To  clothe  a  dying  heart  in  life's  warm  breath, 

When  every  day  repeats  a  long  eternity, 
And  every  hour  is 

OF  THE 


76  O,    SPEAK    IT    NOT. 

O,  God  !  why  were  we  born  to  live  a  life, 

From  very  thought  of  which  our  souls  must  shrink, 

To  sink  down  in  the  waves  of  human  strife, 
And  ever  only  wait,  and  wait  and  think. 

No  wonder  that  so  many  hapless  ones, 

Too  sensitive  the  specter  to  defy, 
Arm,  Hamlet-like,  against  a  sea  of  woes, 

And  test  the  truth,  that  "  it  is  life  to  die." 


0,  SPEAK  IT  NOT. 

O,  speak  not  hastily  the  word 

Thine  ear  from  idle  tongues  has  heard. 
If  false  the  tale  thou  couldst  recall, 

How  hard  and  cruel  must  it  fall  ? 
If  true,  why,  helping  it  along 

Will  never,  never  right  the  wrong. 
O,  speak  it  not,  nor  speak  the  word 

That  wounds,  though  but  in  jest  'tis  heard 
Keep  back  the  thrust,  the  look  askance, 

The  petty  doubt,  the  sneering  glance  ; 
Keep  back  the  taunts  and  jeers, 

Life  has  enough  of  breaking  heajts, 
Of  pointed  barbs  and  venomed  darts — 

Enough  of  pain  and  tears. 


A    SHATTERED    IDOL.  77 


A  SHATTERED  IDOL. 

0  blame  me  not  for  the  cruel  words 
In  a  moment  of  madness  said ; 

The  shadow  that  fell  upon  my  life, 
Is  cold  as  the  shrouded  dead. 

Deem  not  I  am  hard  and  heartless ; 
My  tears  are  as  warm  as  thine ; 

'Twas  clay  that  I  crowned  and  worshiped, 
And  wept  o'er  its  crumbled  shrine. 

To  me,  my  passionate,  deathless  soul, 

Was  less  than  his  finger-tips ; 
He  turned  away  from  the  gold  of  my  love 

For  the  dross  on  a  wanton's  lips. 
My  faith  in  his  truth  is  broken — 

Even  truth  itself  is  a  lie. 

1  have  cursed  him  ! — but  I  love  him, 

And  I'll  love  him  till  I  die. 


7 8  POOR    LITTLE   JOE. 


POOR  LITTLE  JOE. 

A  ring  on  the  door  bell, 

Some  one  at  the  door, 
Mute  asking  admittance 

Where  never  before 
A  stranger  in  midnight, 

In  silence  and  stealth, 
Sought  access  to  gain 

In  a  mansion  of  wealth. 
Into  the  gaslight 

A  package  is  borne  ; 
Quickly  from  round  it 

The  wrappings  are  torn. 
What  is  it  ?  a  baby  ! 

What  seek  you  to-night, 
So  rosy  and  smiling, 

Nor  in  fear,  nor  in  fright  ? 

Ah  !  little  intruder, 

What  is  it  you  wear 
So  close  to  your  breast  ? 

Sure  but  hand  in  despair 
Could  have  written  the  message 

Unconscious  you  bear, 
And  "loved"  and  "God  blessed"  you 

While  leaving  you  there. 


POOR    LITTLE   JOE.  79 

Let's  see  what  the  story 

Tis  telling  for  you  ; 
How  brief  and  pathetic  ; 

But  can  it  be  true  ? 
A  mother  heart  brokenly 

Praying  in  grief 
From  hand  of  a  stranger 

Her  baby's  relief. 
"  He's  helpless  and  homeless, 

But  stainless  as  snow  ; 
O,  take  him  and  keep  him— 

My  poor  little  Joe.  " 

That's  all  there  is  of  it, 

If  false  or  if  true ; 
Yet  long  enough  seems  it, 

And  sad  enough,  too. 
No  love-welcome  greeted 

The  sweet  baby  face, 
In  the  life  that  gave  his  life 

There  was  not  a  place. 
No  place  for  the  baby, 

There's  none  for  him  here, 
No  heart  that  may  give  him 

A  smile  or  a  tear. 
Off  to  the  refuge, 

For  such,  he  must  go, 
He's  only  a  foundling — 

Poor  little  Joe. 


80  FATE. 


Deserted,  forsaken, 

Thrust  out  in  the  strife, 

Adrift  on  the  pitiless 
Ocean  of  life. 

What  will  become  of  him, 
Who  may  decide 

If  good  or  if  evil 
His  life  shall  betide. 

No  tender  caresses 
F,ver  to  know, 

Nor  guidance,  nor  blessing- 
Poor  little  Joe. 


FATE. 

Ruth  was  a  laughing-eyed  prattler, 
Thoughtless,  and  happy,  and  free  ; 

She  planted  a  seed  in  the  garden, 
And  said  :   "  It  will  grow  to  a  tree— 
A  beautiful  blossoming  tree." 

The  birds  and  the  squirrels  played  round  it, 
As  careless  and  merry  was  she, 

But  no  tree  ever  grew  from  her  planting — 
No  beautiful  blossoming  tree. 


FATE.  8 1 

Ruth  was  a  winsome-faced  maiden, 

Happy,  and  hopeful,  and  free  ; 
She  planted  a  seed  in  the  garden, 

And  smilingly  waited  to  see — 
A  beautiful  blossoming  tree. 

She  covered  the  ground  up  with  flowers, 

The  butterfly  came,  and  the  bee, 
But  no  tree  ever  grew  from  her  planting — 

No  beautiful  blossoming  tree. 

Ruth  was  a  pale  saddened  woman, 
Thoughtful,  with  tremblings  and  fears, 

She  planted  a  seed  in  the  garden, 

And  watered  the  place  with  her  tears — 

And  watched  it  with  tremblings  and  fears. 

The  winds  and  the  rains  beat  upon  it, 
The  lightnings  flashed  o'er  it  in  glee  ; 

But  she  sleeps  'neath  the  tree  of  her  planting — 
A  beautiful  blossoming  tree. 


I 

82  THE    GHOSTS    IN    THE    HEART. 


THE  GHOSTS  IX  THE  HEART. 

They  came  in  the  hush  of  the  midnight, 
In  the  glare  of  the  noonday  start 

Out  from  the  graves  \ve  made  them— 
The  graves  we  made  in  the  heart. 

There  is  love  with  its  fickle  fancies  ; 

Its  grave  was  so  wide  and  deep, 
And  we  heaped  the  mound  with  oblivion, 

But  the  soul  of  love  could  not  sleep. 

And  hate  !  ah,  we  buried  it  deeper 

Than  all  the  rest  of  the  train  ; 
But  one  word  through  memory  flashing, 

And  its  ghost  comes  back  again. 

There  are  phantoms  of  sunshiny  hours 
That  fled  when  the  summer  time  fled, 

And  specters  that  mock  while  they  haunt  us, 
Long  buried,  but  never  dead. 

And  ever  and  ever  an  hour 

Will  come  that  the  heart-wraiths  control, 
Till  down  from  Eternity's  tower 

A  banshee  shall  ring  for  the  soul. 


ONLY    A    TRAMP.  83 


ONLY  A  TRAMP. 

Only  a  tramp  by  the  roadside  dead, 

Only  a  tramp — who  cares  ? 
His  feet  are  bare,  his  dull  eyes  stare, 

And  the  wind  plays  freaks  with  his  unkempt  hair. 
The  sun  rose  up  and  the  sun  went  down, 

But  nobody  missed  him  from  the  town 
Where  he  begged  for  bread  'till  the  day  was  dead. 

He's  only  a  tramp — who  cares  ? 
Only  a  tramp,  a  nuisance  gone. 

One  more  tramp  less — who  cares  ? 

Ghastly  and  gray,  in  the  lane  all  day, 
A  soiled,  dead  heap  of  human  clay. 

Would  the  wasted  crumbs  in  the  rich  man's  hall, 
Where  the  gas-lights  gleam  and  the  curtains  fall, 

Have  given  him  a  longer  lease  of  breath — 
Have  saved  the  wretch  from  starving  to  death  ? 

He's  only  a  tramp — who  cares  ? 

Only  a  tramp  !  was  he  ever  more 
Than  a  beggar  tramp  ?     Who  cares  ? 

Was  the  hard-lined  face  ever  dimpled  and  sweet  ? 
Has  a  mother  kissed  those  rough  brown  feet, 

And  thought  their  tramping  a  sweeter  strain 
Than  ever  will  waken  her  ear  again  ? 


84  PUT    FLOWERS    ON    MY    GRAVE. 

Does  somebody  kneel  'way  over  the  sea, 

Praying  "  Father,  bring  back  my  boy  to  me  ?  " 

Does  somebody  watch  and  weep  and  pray 

For  the  tramp  who  lies  dead  in  the  lane  to-day  > 
He's  only  a  tramp — who  cares  ? 


PUT  FLOWERS  OX  MY  GRAVE. 

When  dead,  no  imposing  funeral  rite, 

Nor  line  of  praise  I  crave ; 
But  drop  your  tears  upon  my  face — 

Put  flowers  on  my  grave. 

Close  not  in  narrow  wall  the  place 
In  which  my  heart  finds  rest, 

Nor  mark  with  tow'ring  monument 
The  sod  above  my  breast. 

Nor  carve  on  gleaming,  marble  slab 
A  burning  thought,  or  deed, 

Or  word  of  love,  or  praise,  or  blame, 
For  stranger  eyes  to  read. 

But  deep,  deep  in  your  heart  of  hearts, 
A  tender  mem'ry  save  ; 

Upon  my  dead  face  drop  your  tears- 
Put  flowers  on  my  grave. 


OLD    AUNT    LUCY.  85 


OLD  AUNT  LUCY. 

Why  into  that  darkened  chamber 
Walk  you  with  such  noiseless  tread  ? 

No  slumbering  one  will  awaken — 
The  sheeted  form  is  dead. 

Why  gaze  on  the  rigid  features, 
So  white  in  death's  embrace, 

With  such  look  of  awe  and  pity  ? 
'Tis  only  the  same  old  face. 

Why  touch  you  now  so  tender 

The  hands  that  silent  lay? 
They  're  only  the  sunburned  fingers 

That  toiled  for  you  night  and  day. 

Why  now,  with  tear-dimmed  vision, 

So  softly  do  you  press 
Upon  the  wrinkled  forehead 

Your  lips  in  sad  caress  ? 

How  much  of  care  had  lighted 
That  lingering,  loving  kiss, 

Had  you  in  life  but  gave  it — 
You  never  thought  of  this. 


86  OLD    AUNT    LUCY. 

No  loving  hand  e'er  brightened 
Her  life  with  tender  care, 

No  mother's  baby-kisses 
Were  ever  hers  to  share. 

Only  for  others  caring, 

The  long,  long  years  have  fled ; 
Now,  only,  they  say, — the  neighbors — 
"  Poor  old  Aunt  Lucy's  dead.  " 

And  they  whisper  a  girl's  ambition, 
A  name  in  the  world  to  make ; 

'  Way  back  in  her  vanished  youth-time, 
Gave  up  for  a  duty's  sake. 

But  whatever  had  been  the  story 
Of  love,  or  grief,  or  woe, 

It  died  with  the  heart,  and  no  one 
Will  ever  care  or  know. 

The  hands  were  hard  and  toil-stained, 
And  sallow  the  cheeks  and  chin, 

But  whiter  not  the  snow-wreath 
Than  the  soul  that  dwelt  within. 

And  methinks  a  crown  resplendent — 
Just  over  the  waveless  sea — 

With  gems  of  self-denial, 
Awaits  for  such  as  she. 


UNSPOKEN    WORDS.  87 


UNSPOKEN  WORDS. 

Unspoken  words  may  thrill  the  heart, 

Their  meaning  be  more  deeply  felt 
Than  all  the  glowing  oratory 

Poured  at  the  shrine  where  reason  knelt. 
The  fairest  pictures  art  conceives, 

The  noblest  sentiments  of  mind, 
The  loveliest,  purest  gems  of  thought 

Are  those  which  never  are  defined. 

The  hand  that  paints  the  rainbow  dyes 

Ne'er  leaves  a  trace  its  skill  to  show — 
The  art  that  gilds  the  sunset  skies 

And  tints  the  flower,  we  may  not  know. 
Nor  may  we  know  the  wizard  power 

Which  o'er  our  being  wields  control, 
Nor  how,  when  silence  seals  the  lips, 

Heart  speaks  to  heart  and  soul  to  soul. 

We  do  not  know  from  whence  the  life 

Imbued  in  crystal  drop  of  rain, 
Nor  why,  when  torn  and  trampled  on, 

The  rose's  fragrance  will  remain. 
Nor  know  we  why  the  tender  tone 

Will  linger  when  love's  dream  is  fled, 
Nor  why  the  smile  we  loved  will  live, 

Although  the  face  it  wreathed  be  dead. 


UNSPOKEN    WORDS. 

Some  strangely  fascinating  spell 

Steals  o'er  the  heart  in  ethic's  hour ; 
We  know  not  what,  nor  how,  nor  why, 

Still  must  we  own  we  feel  its  power — 
A  power  that  wakens  slumbering  dreams, 

Intangible  emotion  swells, 
That  penetrates  the  soul's  deep  fount, 

And  greets  the  tide  that  from  it  wells. 

It  is  not  charm  of  form  or  face, 

Nor  is  it  long  contact  of  years 
That  wins  this  mutual  soul  response, 

This  spirit  sympathy  endears. 
A  theory  by  time  engraved 

From  life,  one  mad  impulse  may  sweep- 
A  glance  may  into  being  start 

Vain  hopes  that  nevermore  may  sleep. 

The  quiet  touch  when  hands  are  clasped 

Would  seemingly  no  sense  impart, 
Yet  may  it  wake  a  deathless  theme 

And  send  it  quivering  to  the  heart. 
And  thus  may  kindred  spirits  feel, 

Though  tone  of  voice  be  never  heard, 
The  sweet,  impassioned  eloquence, 

The  magic  of  unspoken  words. 


O  !    TAKE    AWAY    YOUR    FLOWERS.  89 


0!  TAKE  AWAY  YOUR  FLOWERS. 

0  !  take  your  pale  camelias  back  ; 
Their  soft  leaves,  waxen  white 

And  odorless,  too  ill  accord 
With  my  dark  mood  to-night. 

1  do  not  want  your  hot-house  flowers, 
They  're  like  the  love  you  give — 

A  something  tame  and  passionless 
That  breathes  but  does  not  live. 

You  take  my  hand  as  though  you  feared 

Your  clasp  were  over-bold, 
Your  kiss  falls  light  at  flake  of  snow, 

And  just  as  calm  and  cold. 

I'd  rather  have  your  hatred 
Than  this  lifeless  loving  claim, 

If  your  heart  beat  one  throb  faster 
At  mention  of  my  name. 

Leave  me,  and  bind  those  soulless  leaves 

A  calmer  brow  above  ; 
I  cannot  wear  your  flowers  to-night — 

I  do  not  want  your  love. 


90  RAIN. 


RAIN. 

Drop  !  drop  !  drop  ! 

With  a  ceaseless  patter  fall, 
With  a  sobbing  sound  on  the  sodden  ground, 

And  the  gray  clouds  over  all. 
Dost  weep  of  the  parted  summer, 

O,  spirit  of  the  rain  ? 
For  the  vanished  hours  and  the  faded  flowers 

That  never  can  come  again  ? 

The  farmer  smiles  at  thy  weeping, 

Hushing  the  whispering  leaves, 
And  dreams  of  days  in  the  Autumn  haze 

And  the  gathered  golden  sheaves. 
There's  a  voice  of  hope,  a  promise, 

In  the  sound  of  thy  refrain, 
And  as  bright  the  hours  and  as  fair  the  flowers 

That  will  come  to  thee  again. 

And  yet  in  our  lives,  though  knowing 

That  we  hold  a  scepter's  sway, 
How  oft  we  turn  with  the  thoughts  that  burn. 

To  weep  on  Autumn  day. 
Turn  from  the  hopeful  future 

To  weep  in  grief  and  pain, 
For  the  vanished  hours  and  the  faded  flowers 

That  never  can  come  again. 


I  LOVE  HIM  FOR  HIS  EYES.  91 


I  LOVE  HIM  FOR  HIS  EYES. 

They  praise  the  baby's  dimpled  hands, 

His  brow  so  broad  and  fair, 
They  kiss  the  dainty  rose-bud  mouth, 

Caress  the  sunny  hair. 
His  lisping  words,  his  tottling  steps, 

His  smiles  they  praise  and  prize, 
They  love  him  for  his  cunning  ways, 

I  love  him  for  his  eyes. 

The  wealth  of  golden  tinted  curls 

Old  Time  will  streak  with  snow  ; 
The  rose-bud  mouth  so  dainty  curved 

To  sterner  lines  will  grow. 
The  fleeting  years  will  mark  with  change 

Each  feature  now  they  prize, 
Save  only  the  sweet  eyes  I  love— 

I  love  him  for  him  eyes. 

Those  wondrous,  wondrous  soulful  eyes, 

How  strange  the  spell  they  fling 
Unconsciously  around  my  heart ; 

What  memories  they  bring  ! 
What  buried  hours  come  thronging  back- 

A  distant,  dearer  clime — 
Another  pair  of  love-lit  eyes, 

Another  summer  time. 


92  ONLY. 

Oh,  baby,  take  your  eyes  away  : 

They  burn  into  my  heart ! 
I'll  kiss  you  once,  and  say  good-by, 

And  hide  the  tears  that  start ; 
But  through  the  years  to  come  and  go, 

The  changful  scenes  to  rise, 
I'll  love  the  little  baby  boy — 

I  love  him  for  his  eyes. 


ONLY. 

Only  a  sentence  earnest  spoke, 
With  never  a  thought  to  word  it, 

Fell  like  balm  from  the  sea  of  calm, 
On  the  aching  heart  that  heard  it. 

Only  a  glance,  a  scornful  smile, 
A  wavering  purpose  altered, 

Goaded  a  hand  the  crime  to  do 
At  which  before  it  faltered. 

Only  a  kiss,  a  love  caress, 
Tender  and  trustful  given, 

Banished  a  cloud  from  brow  of  care, 
Made  home  a  woman's  Heaven. 


ONLY.  93 

Only  a  secret,  chance  disclosed, 

Whence  secret  should  be  never, 
A  doubt  crept  into  the  heart  that  loved 

And  its  light  went  out  forever. 

Only  a  prayer,  a  wrong  confessed, 

By  suppliant  lowly  kneeling, 
Opened  the  gate  where  the  angels  wait, 

Life's  Eden  field  revealing. 

Careful  then  scatter  the  little  things, 

They  make  life  drear  and  lonely, 
Or  strew  its  way  with  flowers  gay, — 

We  live  by  trifles  only. 


94  SOMEBODY'S  BABY  's  DEAD 


SOMEBODY'S   BABY'S   DEAD. 

A  hearse  all  draped  in  mourning, 
With  white  plumes  overhead, 

Bearing  a  little  coffin — 
Somebody's  baby's  dead. 

Upon  the  velvet  cover 

Some  hand  has  placed  a  wreath, 
White  as  the  waxen  features 

Of  the  baby  that  lies  beneath. 

Out  in  the  graveyard  making 

A  rest  for  a  shining  head, 
Somebody's  heart  is  breaking, 

Somebody's  baby's  dead. 

Over  a  baby's  coffin, 

Heaping  a  mound  of  clay, 
Somebody's  hopes  are  buried 

In  that  little  grave  to-day. 

Somebody's  home  is  dreary, 

Sombody's  sunshine  fled, 
Somebody's  sad  and  weary, 

Somebody's  baby's  dead. 


THE    WITHERED    ROSEBUD.  95 


THE  WITHERED  ROSEBUD. 

I  gathered  you,  sweet  little  rosebud, 

With  a  dew  crown  encircling  your  head  ; 
Now,  out  of  the  window  I  toss  you, 

Shriveled,  and  scentless,  and  dead. 
You  had  opened  to  wondrous  perfection, 

Had  only  my  hand  let  you  pass  ; 
Yet  here  you  have  perished  for  water— 

I  forgot  to  put  some  in  the  glass. 

Ah  !  poor  little  withered,  dead  rosebud, 

How  many  a  weak  human  heart, 
Too  like  you,  has  famishing  perished, 

When  life  had  but  only  a  start  ? 
Yes,  many  a  heart,  little  rosebud, 

Loving,  and  tender,  and  true, 
For  water  has  faded  and  withered, 

And  died  in  its  beauty  like  you, 
Not  because  there  was  dearth  of  life's  fountain, 

Nor  the  blessing  to  all  might  not  pass, 
But  because  the  strong  hand  .which  it  clung  to 

Forgot  to  put  some  in  its  glass. 


96  MY    SHIPS    HAVE    COME    FROM    SEA, 


MY  SHIPS  HAVE  COME  FROM  SEA. 

You  are  watching  a  ship,  O,  maiden  fair, 

With  parted  lips  and  wistful  air, 

The  ship  that  out  from  the  sheltered  bay 

With  white  sails  spread  moves  slow  away  ; 

And  I  know,  my  girl,  the  thoughts  that  burn 

In  your  heart  are  of  that  ship's  return. 

Ah  !  I  know  so  well  how  your  pulses  beat. 

With  the  great  sea  sobbing  at  your  feet ; 

And  the  yellow  stars  in  southern  skies 

Are  brighter  not  than  your  love-bright  eyes. 

I,  too,  have  stood  on  the  sea-wet  sand 

And  tearful  waved  a  farewell  hand, 

And  watched  with  many  a  longing  prayer. 

My  face,  like  yours,  was  young  and  fair, 

And  my  eyes  were  bright  as  the  diamond's  glow  ; 

They've  lost  their  sparkle — long  ago. 

I  stand  alone  on  the  beach  to-day, 

Watching  the  ships  that  sail  away  ; 

But  never  a  sail  from  over  the  sea 

The  flowing  tide  will  bring  to  me, 

My  ships  have  come  from  sea. 

The  first  was  builded  with  childish  hand, 

It  floated  away  a  castle  grand — 

A  beautiful  bubble  with  rainbow  hues, 


MY    SHIPS    HAVE    COME    FROM    SEA.  97 

Lined  with  the  crystal  of  morning  dews  ; 
To  break  at  my  feet  by  the  sunny  sea, 
A  beautiful  bubble  came  back  to  me— 
Came  back  from  my  ship  at  sea. 

I  fashioned  another  in  gladsome  way 
And  sent  it  forth  on  a  Summer  day. 

I  see  it  yet,  a  fairer  craft, 
Never  at  danger  mocking  laughed  ; 
Its  shrouds  were  the  sheen  of  happy  hours, 
Its  helm  a  wreath  of  orange  flowers  ; 
And  I  freighted  it  down  with  love  and  truth, 
The  golden  hopes  of  my  sunny  youth. 
Had  it  lived  the  storm — but  it  could  not  be, 
A  stranded  wreck  on  the  surf-washed  lea, 

My  ship  came  home  from  sea. 

And  then  a  smiling  fairy  bark, 
A  fragile,  precious-freighted  ark, 
Out  on  life's  ocean  drear  and  dark. 
And  I  prayed  to  God,  as  I  never  before, 
To  shield  this  bark  from  the  tempest's  roar, 
To  spare  me  this — but  it  could  not  be, 
A  tiny  coffin  came  back  to  me — 

Came  back  from  my  ship  at  sea. 

With  reckless  hand  I  launched  again, 
A  venture  on  the  treacherous  main, 
Bound  for  ambition's  dizzy  court ; 
Sailed  from  a  hopeless,  loveless  port ; 


MY    SHIPS    HAVE    COM!-:    1R(>.\[ 

With  gloomy  walls  whose  silence  chilled, 
With  ghostly  haunting  memories  filled, 
With  never  a  breath  of  the  roses  dead  ; 
Never  a  rest  for  a  weary  head, 
Never  a  dream  of  a  sweet  to  be, 
Hopeless,  loveless  still,  to  me, 

My  ship  came  home  from  sea. 

The  last,  and  least,  of  all  the  ships 

Fashioned  with  hands,  and  heart,  and  lips, 

I  pushed  from  shore  with  its  decks  untrod, 

And  the  freight  it  bore  was  my  faith  in  God. 

I  recked  not  whither  its  way,  nor  when, 

Nor  how,  if  ever,  'twould  come  again, 

And  this,  alone,  came  back  to  me, 

Rich-laden  from  the  stormy  sea. 

And  so,  sweet  maiden,  while  your  dreams 

Paint  fairest  all  that  fairest  seems, 

I  stand  with  you  and  watch  to-day 

The  ship  that  sails  from  the  shore  away  : 

But  never  a  sail  from  over  the  sea 

The  flowing  tide  will  bring  to  me — 

My  ships  have  come  from  sea. 


One   of  California's   Truest 
Poets, 


VERSE  FILLED  WITH  MELODY 


She  Has  Pictured  Life  and  Death-Not  Only 

a  tweet  Poet,  but  a  Tender-hearted, 

Practical  Woman. 


Written  for  THE  MOBXING 

11  And  some  Orient  dawn  had  found  me 
Kneeling  at  the  house  of  fame." 

Fame  found  Madge  Morris  Wagner  in  the 
blazing  Colorado  Desert,  her  fingers  on  the 
pulse  of  Nature  at  fever  heat.  Or,  at  least, 
thither  sent  Lippincotts  of  Philadelphia  to 
find  her  the  other  day  and  persuade  her  to 
speak  through  them  to  the  world.  And  this 
is  what  she  said,  like  all  who  are  truly  great 
teachers,  making  a  text  of  the  place  and  the 
time: 

TO  THE  COLORADO  DESERT. 


Indeed,  I  doubt  if  you  will  find  anything 
more  terribly  truthful  and  fearfully  sub. 
lime  this  side  of  Job  than  this  one  lone, 
lorn  cry  from  the  desert.  A  photograph,  even 
were  such  a  thing  possible,  could  not  be 
more  ghastly  and  ghastly  exact.  It  is  true 
poetry,  and  therefore  more  really  true  than 
the  ordinary  forms  of  truth.  For  truth 
can  only  be  told  entirely  by  figures  of 
speech— poetry.  There  are  not  words 
enough  in  all  the  languages  of  this  world  to 
tell  even  the  simplest  truth  exactly,  even  if 
there  were  time  enough  in  the  world.  We 
must  depend  upon  figures  of  speech,  as  did 
the  seers  of  the  Orient,  for  the  exact  truth. 
But  the  figures  must  be  true,  stately,  ma 
jestic,  impressive.  This  is  poetry;  and  irue 
poetry  is  in  this  sense  not  only  the  highest 
form  of  truth,  but  it  is  the  only  real  truth 
that  is  uttered.  When  the  world  comes  to 
comprehend  poetry  it  will  have  a  great  deal 

•more  truth,    less   quibbling   about    words, 

'legal  technicalities/legal  lies. 

Turn  back  and  read  this  poem  from  Lip- 

,  pincoty's  on  the  Colorado  Desert  again, 
please.  You  can  read  it  with  profit  and  a 
certain  sort  of  solemn  pleasure  a  dozen 
times.  There  are  lines  here  that  are  texts, 
sermons. 

God  must  bare  made  thee  in  his  anger  and  forgot* 
Madge  Morris  Wagner  has  been  all  her 
life  with  us  out  here  on  the  great  sea- 
bank  I  believe;  bore  in  Oregon  I  think.  At 
least  I  know  her  father  was  "a  mighty  hun 
ter"  in  Oregon ;  and  her  uncle,  Bishop 
Morris,  was  a  Virginian.  Maybe,  she,  too, 
was  a  Vireinian.  1  neither  know  nor  care. 
We  fill  our  books  up  with  the  dates  and 
place  of  birth,  things  that  don't  amount  to 

'  a  peanut,  and  leaveUittle  room  for  deeds  or 

,  utterances. 

What  will  we  do  i|hen  we  come  to  have 

I  24,000  years  of  history  and  biography  be- 
hind  us?  Why,  wefwill  say  as  the  Chinese 
say,  "This  poet  live!  in  a  certain  dynasty 

Jand  said  so  and  so."*  That  is  all. 

So  I  shall  proceed  to  say  what  this 
strange,  strong  woman  of  the  desert  has  said 
from  out  her  heart  of  hearts.  For  she  is 
o  woman,  a  very  human,  tender  woman. 
And  you  will  concede  before  you  have  done 
reading  the  liUle  bits  of  her  sweet  soul 
which  I  am  permitted  to  give  you 
that  it  is  great  impertinence  in 
me  to  say  much  wden  she  is 
singing.  And  I  want  you  to  know  dis 
tinctly  that  these  next  lines  of  hers  are  as 
exactfy  true  in  all  respects  as  her  lines  on 
the  Colorado  Desert.  Her  only  little  baby 
had  gone  away  from  her,  out  from  the  one 
narrow  room  and  away  to  beyond  the  dark- 

I  ness;  but  in  the  next  narrow  room,  a 
stronger  woman  nursed  and  rocked  and 
cradled  her  stronger  child,  and  kept  rock 
ing  on  her  heart.  And  so  there  and  then, 
out  of  the  awful  agony  and  desolation,  she 
saner.  a«  she  sans  onlv  the  other  dav  from 


the  desert: 

r  her  rocking  the  baby— 
Her  room  is  just  next  to  mine- 
Art  i.l  1  fancy  i  feel  the  dimpled  arm* 

Mind  lier  neck  entwine, 
As  she  rocks,  and  rot.cs  the  baby. 
In  the  room  ju-a  next  to  mine. 

r  her  rocking  the  baby 
Each  day  when  the  twilight  comes, 
And  I  know  there's  a  world  of  blessing  and 

love 

In  the  "baby  bye"  she  hums. 
1  can  see  Hie  restless  fingers 
Flaying  with  -mamma's  rings." 
And  the  sweet  little  smiling,  pouting  mouth, 
Thai  to  hers  in  kiss  ng  clings, 
As  she  rocks  and  sings  to  the  baby, 
And  dreams  as  she  rocks  and  slugs. 

I  hear  her  rocking  the  baby, 

Mower  and  s  ower  now, 

Aud  I  know  she  Is  leaving  her  good-night  kiss 

On  Its  eyes,  and  cheeks  ana  brow. 

I-rom  her  rocking,  rocking,  rocking, 

I  wonder  would  she  utart, 

Ci'iild  she  know,  through  the  wall  between  us, 

She  was  rocking  on  my  heart. 

While  my  empty  arms  are  aching 

For  .1  form  they  may  not  press 

Aud  my  emptier  he:irt  is  breaking 

lu  its  desolate  loneliness. 

I  lint  to  the  rocking,  rocking. 
In  the  room  just  next  to  mine, 
And  breathe  a  grayer  in  silence 
At  a  mother's  broken  shrine, 
For  the  woman  who  rooks  the  baby 
In  the  room  just  next  to  mine. 

Now  and  then  the  winds  blow  a  leaf  of 
hers  from  the  desert  or  from  San  Diego, 
where  she  edits  her  Golden  Era  Magazine, 
away  beyond  the  seas  to  Europe;  but  her 
own  country  has  been  very  careless  about 
her,  save  to  pick  up  her  thoughts  and  air 
them  in  the  poet's  corner  of  the  classics  as 
time  surges  by.  And  she  has  been  and  is 
quite  as  careless  of  the  world;  brave,  bon- 
nie,  beautiful  little  Madge  Morris. 

"It's  a  beast  of  a  name,"  said  Sir ,  as 

he  leaned  on  an  elbow  and  dipped  tho  stub 
end  of  a  celery  stick  in  the  salt,  "ies,  I 
know  Madge  Morris  is  a  silly  sort  of  name. 
But  if  her  name  happens  to  be  Morris  and 
her  uncle  a  Bishop  \\ho  baptized  her  as 
Madge  in  memory  of  his  mother  and  her 
grandmother,  and — 

"God  bless  me,  sir,  it's  a  pood  name,  a 
brave,  good  name,  and  I  honor  her  for 
having  made  it  worthy  of  inquiry  in  Eu 
rope.'' 

I  think  little  more  need  be  said  here. 
Turn  back  and  read  about  the  rocking  of 
the  baby.  And  if  there  are  not  tears  in 
your  eyes  and  tenderness  in  your  heart,  if 
you  are  not  better  indeed  for  the  reading  of 
it  in  all  respect*,  why  all  that  I  might  say 
in  these  pages  till  the  going  down  of  the 
sun  would  neither  profit  you  nor  please  you. 

Id-re  are  the  two  extremes  of  song— the 
solitude,  nakedness,  desolation,  mystery 
and  awful  death  and  dearth  of  the  bound 
less  desert;  and  the  crooning  cradle  song, 
the  baby,  whose  utmost  bound  and  limit  of 
life  is  its  mother's  encircling  arms.  She 
has  pictured  life  and  death.  You  can  hear 


the  mother  rocking,  rocking;  you  can  see 
the  dead  men  lying  in  the  sands  in  her  song 
of  the  Colorado  Desert  as  you  rarely  see 
shapes  in  any  song — 

Some  lengthwise  sun-dried  shapes  with  feet  and 
hands. 

And  right  here  I  am  tempted  to  take 
enough  of  your  time  to  say  that  the  coyote 
is  photographed  In  a  single  line  more  cor 
rectly  than  he  has  yet  been  described  in 
columns. 

I  concede  that  it  is  not  melodious  to  say, 
"he  howls  and  howls  and  howls  and 
howls";  but  then  the  coyote  is  not  travel 
ing  on  his  notes.  He  is  not  melodious;  he 
simply  howl.".  Then  lie  howls  more;  then 
more  and  more.  That  is  all.  God  made 
him.  Madge  Morris  did  not  make  him.  She 
merely  took  his  photograph ;  and  for  the 
first  time  it  ever  was  really  taken. 

In  conclusion  let  me  assure  you  that  Mrs. 
Wagner  has  not  written  of  the  desert  froui 
a  car  window.  On  the  contrary  she  knows 
and  she  loves  the  desert  as  a  sailor  knows 
and  loves  the  ocean.  Her  tent  is  there 
season  after  season  and  the  mercury  above 
par.  For  she  and  her  enterprising  husband, 
Harr  Wanner,  believe  in  Arizona  as  I  be 
lieve  in  her.  And  you\rnay  know  that  more 
than  a  dozen  years  agq  I  named  the  Colorado 
River  "The  New  Nile,"  in  either  the  North 
American  Review  or  .the  Independent,  and 
pointed  out  that  this  rast  valley  of  dust  and 
desert  sand  would  [and  could  produce 
enough  to  more  than  feed  the  whole  United 
States. 

Xo,  Madge  Morris  Wnguerisnosentiment- 
alist.  Such  idlers  who  profess  poetry  give 
us  not  gold,  but  brass— not  broad,  bui  a 
stone.  She  is  a  quiet,  hard  worker,  a  prac 
tical  woman,  endowed  with  that  one  best 
things  of  all  things  to  have  in  a  family, 
common-sense. 

You  all  remember  her  firm  hand  and  fair 
face  here  with  us  in  San  Francisco  when 
we  were  establishing  Arbor  day.  She  was 

editing  the  famous  Golden  Era  then,  as  she 
is  still,  when  she  can  get  n  cowboy  to  carry 
copy  out  from  the.  Colors 

She  is  still   planting  tree?,    she  and  her 
husband,    Harr    Wagner.      And    they  are 
paniing   ideas,    too,  persistently,  for  "thrv, 
liko  all  thinkers,  are  teachers,  and  a 
ho  holds  only  the  ofti,--  ,  '-emlnnt  of 

Schools  for  San  Diego  County  !:e  has  in  a 
very  few  years,  bv  tho  Ir.Mp  of  "a  tew  faith 
ful  colaborers,  lifted  that  end  of  t ru 
in  letters  as  a  soldier  lifts  his  banner  of 
victory  in  the  sun.  The  future  of  such 
people  is  not  behind  them. 

JOACJUIX  Mn 


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